


Precious Things

by Thorntonsheart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Austria, Blow Jobs, Case Fic, Completed, Fireflies, First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03, Resolved Sexual Tension, Shower Sex, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-17 20:28:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 28,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4680257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thorntonsheart/pseuds/Thorntonsheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A body is discovered in Regent's Park, malnourished and with Austrian soil on its boots and a pocketful of fireflies. A diplomat is missing and even Mycroft can't locate him.  The trail leads John and Sherlock into Austria and the love life of others. Shared bedrooms and shared stories bring the boys closer together than ever before.</p><p>This story is totally complete and chapters will be posted twice daily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iwassoalone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwassoalone/gifts), [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/gifts).



> This story was inspired by the song Fireflies by Owl City. Of course, it spiralled completely out of control! Happily so! 
> 
> Huge thanks go to the lovely Iwassoalone who held my hand through this story's development from a simple firefly lit kiss to a whole casefic, with dead diplomats and stolen jewellery! 
> 
> And thanks, hugs, kisses, cakes and the loan of Sherlock and John (if I ever get my hands on them) go to the magnificent Lockedinjohnlock, who has gone above and beyond in her role as Beta! She has patiently supported me, gently guided me through the use of commas and semi colons and wielded her red pen as needed. She always seemed to know what words I was searching for, coming up with great alternatives!

John slumps in his chair. Sleep is trying to call him back to its realms, but he is fighting against it. A night flooded with images of women with two faces, and babies that slip through his fingers like sand, has left him utterly exhausted and in no rush to surrender again to Morpheus' grip. He doesn't need a psychologist to explain the hidden message of those dreams - a duplicitous wife and a child that turned out to be another man's - literally _was_ his life, except the wife was very much an ex now.

The sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs catches John's attention - every second step is missed, Sherlock's excitement is almost a living, vibrating entity. Case, then. John vaguely remembers Sherlock swirling into the kitchen at the crack of dawn, wittering on about diamonds, hair and diplomats, all whilst typing furiously away on his phone. He tumbles through the open door of the flat, wind-blown and, John feels, looking suitably Byronic; his hair is tousled by the afternoon wind, cheeks red from the slight nip in the air. Sparkling eyes fall upon John and a grin breaks across his face before he is able to suppress it. John's mouth quirks up in answer. Sherlock holds his gaze for a long moment before finally turning away. John takes that moment to allow himself to look at Sherlock, to admire the beauty of the weather-kissed man, before turning his gaze to the floor, a small smile still on his lips.

"I just got a text from Lestrade, a body has been found at the edge of Regent's Park. He's asking us to go and have a look. Coming?"

"You've only just got in!"

"Yes! And now I'm going out! Coming or not?" Sherlock's words seem their usual imperious selves but John can hear the nervousness behind them. Despite John's laptop being back on the desk, his mug back in the kitchen and his clothes (shirts hung - not folded) back in the upstairs bedroom, Sherlock still seems to believe that John is only visiting, not living permanently back at Baker Street, back where he should always have been.

"Of course." John can see the effect his simple words have on Sherlock, a softness lighting his face before he quickly shuts the expression down again. Grabbing his jacket and keys, John follows Sherlock down the stairs and onto the street, walking next to him as they enter Regent's Park - a happiness he never felt with Mary, flooding his soul.

It's obvious Sherlock knows where he is going as he leads them directly to the crime scene. A quiet, semi wooded area, away from the main paths, the bright yellow police tape incongruous with the still-lush grass and late blooming flowers. Donovan sees them as they approach and lifts the tape ready for them to inspect the body. John notes that Sally still has not resorted to name calling, despite being on many cases with Sherlock since his return, and hopes that it will remain that way. Sherlock isn't always easy to work with, John realises this more than most, but he has never been the freak Sally accused him of being.

John looks on as Sherlock walks slowly around the corpse, scanning the ground and even the trees for goodness-knows what. Sherlock squats by the body, accepts some latex gloves from one of the crime scene officers and very carefully starts to examine it. He strokes the soles of the victim's boots, removing a small sample of mud and placing it in one of his own evidence bags. Next, his gaze moves up the victim's trousers, inspecting them thoroughly through his magnifying glass before checking inside the pockets. John can see he has removed a handful of what look to be beetles but is too far away to see what type they may be. Sherlock passes the majority of them to one of the SOCOs but keeps the rest back for himself, once again placing them in their own evidence bag. Sherlock trails his fingers over the deceased hands before picking one up, bringing it close to his face. He flips the hand so that it is facing palm up, then back over. He leans over the body and carefully opens its mouth, peering inside and then runs his hands through the dead man's hair. John admires the leonine grace of Sherlock's movements, his gaze lingering while Sherlock is utterly focused on the body in front of him. The sound of his name being called jolts him out of his idle reverie and over to Sherlock's side.

"What do you see, John?" John knows that he will miss all the pertinent details but he also knows that his second-rate observations do truly help to fuel Sherlock's deductions.

Crouching down, John leans over the body slightly to get a better look at the victim's features and attire. His gaze roams from the tip of the victim's head to the sole of his shoes.

"Right. Male, Caucasian, I'd say mid- to late-thirties. Had been in relatively good health until fairly recently, but there are signs of rapid weight loss, and possible malnutrition. Clothes don't appear to be cheap, so he's well off. He's wrapped up against the cold, so he expected to be outside. His boots are solid but well worn, a walker of some sort. No obvious signs of violence about the head." John leans over the body further, inspecting the area of coat covering the victim's chest. There is a small hole apparent in the dark wool, the edges slightly darker. "Looks like a single shot straight to the chest. Kill shot."

Looking up from his observations, John finds Sherlock studying him intently. His breath catches in his throat but he refuses to look away. An awkward cough from behind them causes John to break the connection with Sherlock, looking down again at the unfortunate man on the ground.

"Brilliant, John." Sherlock's words cause John to lift his head again. "Of course, you've missed a lot of the pertinent points, but truly, much, much better than before." A small smile plays on John's lips. Of course Sherlock couldn't just give him a compliment! "You were quite right about the age and health. Had been fit and healthy until recently, but the skin on his face is sunken and grey - more than would be expected for the few hours he has been dead - he has not been eating properly. His skin is filthy; the dirt is ingrained - acquired over many days, if not weeks. This tallies with the time he has been missing. He has either been in hiding or else been held against his will. The latter, I believe, his nails are ragged and dirty; he has obviously been trying to escape from somewhere. So, held against his will, but not physically abused." Sherlock takes a breath and his gaze meets with John's, the rest of the speech delivered solely to him. "Not a walker, as is shown by the wear pattern on the boots. Could be a new pair, but unlikely given that these are a few years old; older style, the leather is beginning to crack from lack of regular polishing but the sole shows barely any sign of use. He does use them for walking, but not long hikes, short rambles at the most, more for pleasure than health; in all likelihood to explore the local wildlife. The creatures I found in his pocket need further investigation but appear to be some sort of firefly. Definitely has a good job, as shown by the clothes, well paid, but these clothes are of a classic design and cut, they don't need to be replaced often for him to stay on trend - so he invests his money in clothes wisely, saves or spends his money elsewhere. As you say, single bullet to the heart - kill shot. Obviously a professional job." Scanning the tree line, Sherlock points towards a particularly dense clump. "Most likely from over there, ideal cover, almost no likelihood of being seen in this part of the park." 

"Amazing." It didn't seem to matter how often John saw Sherlock work, he was still in awe of him. The time away from working with him had been hard on them both, and John still couldn't quite believe he was back working on the job he adored, with the man he ..... well, also adored would be truthful. As would admired, loved, wanted, needed. Sherlock's face shows a moment of delight before he turns away to call Lestrade over, checking on any further information regarding the victim. He strides away, slowing briefly to call over his shoulder to John, who follows, apparently without question.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sherlock?" At the sound of his name Sherlock's gaze briefly settles on John's face before darting away. "Sherlock." John's voice is stronger now, but still rich with kindness, forcing Sherlock's attention back to him. "I told you before. I'm back working alongside you, living alongside you, for as long as you need me." When Sherlock finally meets his eye John smiles, he tries to make his expression reassuring but is fairly certain it just comes out looking worried. "Besides, I need a holiday!" Sherlock nods briefly before returning to his packing; John knows a dismissal when he sees one. Barely catching Sherlock's whispered words as he walks to his own room,
> 
> "I'll always need you, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks goes once again to my amazing beta, Lockedinjohnlock. Apparently I think in semi colons but write in commas, she has been hugely patient in correcting all of those! She's most definitely my go-to girl for brilliant word choices!

On their return to the flat, John heads into the kitchen expecting Sherlock to either head off to Bart's to examine his evidence or to throw himself into the relevant investigations here. Determined to grab some lunch and a cuppa before Sherlock takes over the kitchen, John moves with single-minded purpose, only pausing when he senses Sherlock standing in the doorway. Sherlock is intently reading something on his phone, a frown between his brows, before he finally lifts his head and meets John's eyes. For a moment, the two men just share the space, slow breaths mingling in the slightly stale air of the kitchen. Finally Sherlock takes a deep breath and turns abruptly, leaving the room.

"Pack a bag, John. We need to go to Austria. I know your passport is valid. There's a flight for Vienna leaving Heathrow tonight, we can easily make it if you pack now." This last, thrown over his shoulder as he disappears into his bedroom.

Sighing, John pads down the corridor towards Sherlock's bedroom. More information would be useful so he can pack accordingly. Upon reaching Sherlock's room he leans casually against the doorframe, watching the chaos that is Sherlock attempting to pack. Shirts and suits already lie crumpled on the bed, pants and socks are now joining them. John catches a flash of dark blue silk before Sherlock suddenly stills. A pained expression flicks across his face, gone before John can decipher its cause.

"John? Why aren't you packing?" Sherlock's voice has lost all of its previous vivacity. His body language is one of defeat; hands hanging limply at his sides, shoulders slumped. He refuses to meet John's gaze, instead looking at the floor. "I thought you would want to come. I...." He clears his throat, before continuing, his voice hollow. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have presumed."

John's heart shatters at seeing this usually self-assured man doubting himself, doubting John. He wishes he could just rewind time, somehow delete the time he spent with Mary and never make the foolish mistake of choosing her over Sherlock. Even before the whole assassin debacle he knew he was making the wrong choice, he was just too cross with Sherlock. No, now is not the time for lies, he can admit it to himself, if to no-one else. He wasn't cross. He was afraid, petrified in fact. Afraid of the strength of feelings he felt for Sherlock, afraid that he'd be on his own again, afraid that he'd watch Sherlock die again. But he'd ended up experiencing all that, hadn't he? Because he'd made the wrong choice. Now he knew without a doubt that he would always be at Sherlock's side. _Always_ , come hell or high water. They would grow to be grumpy old men together. That's if Sherlock wanted John with him. If not, he had promised himself that he would find a way to convince Sherlock to keep him close by.

"Sherlock?" At the sound of his name Sherlock's gaze briefly settles on John's face before darting away. "Sherlock." John's voice is stronger now, but still rich with kindness, forcing Sherlock's attention back to him. "I told you before. I'm back working alongside you, living alongside you, for as long as you need me." When Sherlock finally meets his eye John smiles, he tries to make his expression reassuring but is fairly certain it just comes out looking worried. "Besides, I need a holiday!" Sherlock nods briefly before returning to his packing; John knows a dismissal when he sees one. Barely catching Sherlock's whispered words as he walks to his own room,

"I'll _always_  need you, John."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Their flight to Vienna is an easy one, but bustling. There's been no time or privacy for Sherlock to tell John about why they have come to Austria, and John is eager to find somewhere to stay so that Sherlock can update him. Unfortunately, finding a room is proving challenging; Sherlock hadn't thought to phone ahead and the last four hotels they had tried were fully booked. Now, standing outside the fifth hotel, John is praying to a god he is not sure he believes in that they have a room.

"Sherlock, I don't care where we stay, just find somewhere. If they've got beds, we stay. At this point it doesn't bloody matter if it's bunk beds!" John's voice is curt. He knows he is grumpy, but the lack of sleep is catching up with him. He had hoped to nap on the plane, but what with Sherlock's constant fidgeting on one side and the stuttered snoring of an old man on his other, John is feeling every second of his forty plus years _and_ a decade or two more. His feet hurt, his back aches and his shoulder is stiff. The palms of his hands have only just recovered from having his nails clenched into them - a _mostly_  successful attempt to stop him poking either of his fellow passengers. He suspects that Sherlock may have some bruises on his arms and thighs tomorrow that will look suspiciously like John's fingertips.

When they finally walk into the foyer, John breathes a sigh of relief. It's nothing overly special, but it's clean, tidy and thankfully doesn't appear to be excessively busy. They do indeed have a room, a family room. John quickly interrupts when he realises that Sherlock is about to refuse it.

"We'll take it, thank you." Sherlock's jaw snaps shut so suddenly it clicks. Shock and surprise battle for supremacy before Sherlock is finally able to wrestle his face into something resembling cool indifference. He looks remarkably like Mycroft like that and John bites back a comment.

"Of course, Sir. Under what name shall I put it?" The receptionist is friendly, her English strongly accented but good and John is immediately put at ease. A few years ago he would have been tempted to chat her up, she's pretty in a homely way, sparkling green eyes, dimples that show when she speaks and warm chestnut brown hair. Now she catches his eye but makes no impression on either his heart or body, partly because he has been burned before, but mostly because his heart belongs elsewhere.

"Holmes."

"Watson."

Their answers overlap and the receptionist frowns in confusion.

"Holmes-Watson?" Her voice is soft but a confused edge lingers on her words.

"Yeah. That'll do." John is too tired to argue, it's easier to agree than try and sort it out tonight. He's aware of Sherlock's bewildered gaze, asking where their room is before Sherlock can speak. She directs them to take the lift to the fourth floor. Just before they walk away her eyes sweep over both John and Sherlock, lingering briefly on their bare ring fingers.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ok. Tell me....." The words are unexpectedly husky. Clearing his throat he tries again, valiantly ignoring the enquiring look Sherlock sends his way. "Tell me about this case. Why are we in Austria, Sherlock? I know Mycroft has been in contact with you about a missing Austrian diplomat, but I distinctly remember you telling him it was dull and not worth your time...... and yet, here we are." John waves his hand about, encompassing the room and apparently all of Austria.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued thanks to Lockedinjohnlock for her awesome beta work and general support. Special thanks to Iwassoalone for giving me the idea of a theft in the first place.
> 
> And a special thank you to Heyerette for introducing me to Austrian history, and in particular, Empress Elisabeth.

Their room is surprisingly spacious with a deep claret carpet and warm white walls. Feeling immediately more at ease, John leaves his suitcase in front of the wardrobe and walks to open the French windows, realising they have a private balcony. He allows the cool evening breeze to tousle his hair and soothe his skin. Breathing deeply, John lets out a contented sigh. This will do nicely, very nicely indeed. Turning round he can see Sherlock hovering between the beds, clearly unsure which one to put his suitcase on and claim as his own.

"Just choose a bed, Sherlock. It's not rocket science." John's voice is soft and rich with affection.

Sherlock places his bag on the single bed, glancing briefly across at the double, his face wistful. "This will be fine for me, John. I'm sure I won't sleep much. You have the double bed, you need your sleep."

Crossing back to the beds, John sits on the edge of the double with a soft groan, the mattress soft and luxurious.

He stretches out on the bed, pushing his arms above his head, savouring the feel of the soft cotton covers, his eyes slipping closed as he takes a few deep breaths. A cool breeze on his stomach alerts him to the fact that his shirt has come untucked and his bare midriff is on show. Lazily pulling the shirt back down, John opens his eyes just in time to see Sherlock looking away, two spots of colour high on his cheeks. Suppressing a smile John stretches again, this time only partly closing his eyes. Sure enough, Sherlock's gaze falls again to the exposed skin. The sight of Sherlock moistening his lower lip brings colour to John's cheeks and he hastens to draw Sherlock's attention away by asking about the case.

"Ok. Tell me....." The words are unexpectedly husky. Clearing his throat he tries again, valiantly ignoring the enquiring look Sherlock sends his way. "Tell me about this case. Why are we in Austria, Sherlock? I know Mycroft has been in contact with you about a missing Austrian diplomat, but I distinctly remember you telling him it was dull and not worth your time...... and yet, here we are." John waves his hand about, encompassing the room and apparently all of Austria.

"Hair gems, John." Sherlock's voice is open and expectant, obviously waiting for John to make the connection. John scrunches his face in concentration, his brows a firm furrow on his forehead. Sherlock notices the moment that John remembers something and he starts pacing, eagerly awaiting John's answer.

"What? Hair gems?" John holds up a hand, silently imploring for more time before Sherlock fills in the gaps. "Before ..... Before I started working with you again," John deliberately avoids mentioning the time when he was still trying to make things work with Mary. "You worked a case to do with stolen hair decorations. Diamond stars, I think. Belonged to, hmmm," John's brow briefly furrows again before he sits up, swinging his legs off the edge of the bed, his face clearing. "Empress Elisabeth of Austria. Hang on, wasn't she Queen of Hungary? Whatever, doesn't matter..... The stars were stolen whilst en route to Vienna after being on display in the British Museum, right? You tracked them and returned them to the Austrian Government. I remember seeing it on the news, they tried to get you to wear the hat again!"

Sherlock briefly smiles at the hat reference and the amusement in John's voice. He looks at John, pride briefly clear on his face. John feels a rush of warmth and love for the man before him. Sherlock is _proud_ of him.

"So, they're connected to this diplomat somehow? Was he the man in Regent's Park?" John waits until Sherlock nods before continuing. "But he's only been missing a few weeks and you returned those gems almost a year ago. Surely the fact that they're both Austrian and went missing in London is just a coincidence?"

John thinks he sees disappointment briefly flit across Sherlock's face, but it is quickly replaced by one of Sherlock's half smiles - a smile that is usually reserved only for John.

"As I've said before, John, the universe is rarely so lazy." The words could easily be taken as a reprimand, but Sherlock's voice, so often cold and calculated, is mellow. He resumes his furious pacing, his coat whipping around his legs with each sudden turn. With one hand he is gesticulating wildly whilst the other is tucked in his trouser pocket. "Our dead diplomat is called Jonas Lechner; he was born here in Vienna. Uninteresting childhood, worked as an intern for the Austrian government, gradually working his way up through the departments until he gained a post in London. He was married, briefly, to Emily White, no children. They separated and filed for divorce after only three months together. She cited his obsessive behaviour on their divorce application."

"Obsessive behaviour? Was he trying to control her life? Not allowing her out of the house? God, that's awful."

"No." Sherlock's rich baritone fills the room and John feels himself relaxing further from their journey. "He collected bugs, they were all over his London residence, and as you witnessed, in his pocket at the park. I investigated his flat earlier this week, it would really have been quite fascinating had there been any proper organisation. The creatures were roaming the flat in many cases, most unhygienic." Sherlock ignores John's small snort of laughter, knowing that he is being laughed at for considering loose bugs more unhygienic than stray body parts. "But he also had paperwork relating to the gems in his desk, his own notations on the paper, some sort of code. I managed to break into his private files on his laptop and he seems to have been fascinated with Empress Elisabeth, her family and her estate. Coincidences don't happen, John, he was looking into all that for a reason. The body showed, and his post-mortem confirmed, that he was malnourished and showing signs of physical neglect. He was kept somewhere, beneath even Mycroft's radar and now he turns up dead. Someone was trying to get information from him. He was killed for a reason. It was a cold blooded assassination." He winces and glances at John, aware that it's a sensitive subject. "A clear, concise message, either of a job completed or as a warning to others."

John shrugs it off, he knows the words may come back to haunt him later; after all, hearing Sherlock refer to a cold blooded assassin touches rather close to home. He continues to watch as Sherlock paces, it never fails to amaze John how animated Sherlock is at these times. The life that John had thought lost - twice - now glows out of Sherlock's skin like starlight. John could watch him for hours, _does_ watch him for hours. Luckily he has learned to listen as well as look.

"So, this diplomat." John glances to the side as he recalls the name, before looking directly at Sherlock again. "Jonas Lechner, is what? Some sort of creepy stalker bug man of the dead and famous? And he's somehow connected to the theft of the jewels? But you got those back, returned them to the Austrian government."

Sherlock stops pacing and swiftly takes off his coat, throwing it over the end of his bed.

"Fake."

Frowning, John rubs at the nape of his neck; he knows it's a self-soothing gesture, a fairly useless one, but he's unable to stop. "No. That's not possible. The jewels were inspected by experts, experts from the Austrian government, not ours. They passed all the tests; there was no question of their authenticity."

Sighing, Sherlock lowers his long frame until he is sitting on the edge of the single bed, facing John, their knees nearly touching. Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands against his lips before lowering them under his chin. Sherlock's gaze rests on him and John fights the urge to fidget under its quiet scrutiny. Sherlock's eyes are a bright, sky blue tonight and John is utterly spellbound as they scan over him. Sherlock's gaze finally stills on John's mouth and John holds his breath.

A door slams in the corridor and Sherlock blinks, the spell broken, and John silently curses the other guest. What had Sherlock been thinking? What had caught his attention so firmly that he allowed himself to be distracted from his breakdown of the facts?

Leaning slightly away, Sherlock runs his hands through his hair, the soft waves parting easily around his fingers and John's own fingers twitch, the temptation to run his hands through that glorious mane almost too much. He jumps slightly when Sherlock speaks again.

"Definitely fake, John. As much as I hate to admit it, the loss of those jewels is a case I have been unable to solve, they are most definitely fake. Mycroft and I arranged for duplicates to be made, extremely high quality of course, made to exactly the same specifications - just devoid of all the historical associations. Mycroft arranged for all the right people to come and do the validation, to provide the correct papers of authenticity. Then it was just the simple matter of me returning Empress Elisabeth's 'stars' to the Austrian government, with all the necessary pomp and circumstance in place, of course."

"Of course." John laughs as a vision of just how much Sherlock would _not_  have enjoyed all the pomp and circumstance crosses his mind. "So, do you think that Lechner has a connection to the jewels? That he somehow brought them back to Austria?" John is leaning very much into Sherlock's personal space again but he can't quite bring himself to move away. In fact, his body involuntarily leans further in.

Sherlock tilts his head, but doesn't move away, he licks his lips in an unconscious gesture and John has to fight down a shiver. Being this close to Sherlock is testing all of his will power, a small tip forward and their lips would easily meet, but John knows now is not the time for that. He's beginning to wonder if it ever will be.

A long moment passes between them before John finally breaks the tension by standing, flushing when he realises that his crotch is now completely at Sherlock's eye level, before he moves rapidly away. For a moment he thought he had seen something on Sherlock's face, something he has glimpsed before but never quite this clearly. Hunger. Specifically, a hunger for John. When he glances back, Sherlock's face is again casually blank and John writes it off to the imaginings of an over active, over tired, over libidinous mind.

Tossing the room service menu at John, Sherlock eases himself off the bed. "Order yourself something to eat. I'm going to grab a shower and then do a bit more research."

John stares blankly at the menu he had automatically caught. "You're going out? Let me grab a shower after you, wake myself up a bit, and I'll go with you."

Sherlock stops rifling through his bag to look at John, an unusual softness to his features. "No. I was going to stay in, work on the laptop whilst you slept. Order something John, then get some sleep." Sherlock finally grabs his toiletries and disappears into the small en-suite.

"Shall I order for you, too?" John raises his voice to carry over the sound of running water.

"No. I ate on the plane." Sherlock's voice is distorted slightly and John has to close his eyes against the sudden thought of a naked Sherlock just on the other side of the door.

"A bag of peanuts doesn't count, Sherlock!" A chuckle is all he receives in answer.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "About bloody time, you're going to look like........" Looking up from his food the words die on John's lips. He is suddenly faced with acres of flushed, pink, extremely bare skin, Sherlock's only concession to modesty is a white fluffy towel secured low around his hips. John licks his lips, his face still upturned as he looks at Sherlock, swallowing against the sudden flood of saliva in his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always my undying gratitude goes to Lockedinjohnlock for her patience, support and friendship.
> 
> Also to Iwassoalone for reading the first draft of John's vision of Sherlock in a towel and responding with a nnnnghhh! My first one ever!

Twenty minutes later, John's stomach is rumbling loudly. He is expecting room service to arrive any minute now but is wondering whether the food will arrive before Sherlock emerges from the bathroom. Sherlock has always been very thorough when bathing, taking his time, but John thinks this is something of a record. A knock at the door signals the arrival of his food and John lets the waiter in. The plates are uncovered and left on a small table and John gives the man a small tip before banging on the bathroom door on his way to the table.

The door opens and a billow of steam marks Sherlock's exit.

"About bloody time, you're going to look like........" Looking up from his food the words die on John's lips. He is suddenly faced with acres of flushed, pink, extremely bare skin, Sherlock's only concession to modesty is a white fluffy towel secured low around his hips. John licks his lips, his face still upturned as he looks at Sherlock, swallowing against the sudden flood of saliva in his mouth.

Sherlock leans over John and steals a chip from the plate. "Forgot clean clothes." With a wink Sherlock grabs his pyjamas from his suitcase and saunters back into the en-suite, casually nibbling on John's stolen chip.

Belatedly, John protests against his food being stolen, more of an auto response than any real concern, before blushing when he realises he's sitting there with his mouth hanging open. He's seen Sherlock fresh from the shower before, sometimes with only a towel around him, but the moments have been brief and at a distance. Of course, he had seen rather a lot of Sherlock's body after Mary had shot him. John had been his private doctor, changing bandages, administering pain relief, helping him move around the flat and, of course, bathing him. But seeing a hale and hearty Sherlock virtually naked is quite a different experience. Inhaling deeply, John can still smell the traces of shower gel and shampoo in the room, his mind filling with amorous thoughts as he recalls the scent of Sherlock's warm skin millimetres from his own, shower-fresh but still uniquely him. Surprised at how much he noticed in the short time that Sherlock was out of the bathroom, John allows his mind to wander.

The images in his mind are in vivid, glorious technicolour. Streams of water had caressed Sherlock's torso, weaving their way along the edges of toned muscles and through a smattering of dark chest hair. The scars that tell the stories of Sherlock's adventures had stood out white against flushed skin - the gunshot wound that had nearly taken him away permanently, the marks from his time in captivity - most now, thankfully, faded to smooth white. Then, there were the numerous scars from chemical burns on his hands and lower arms, testament of his dedication to The Work. Finally, older, smaller scars nestled in the crook of his elbow - marks of times best forgotten. John can picture how the towel had sat low on slim hips, smooth against a flat stomach. The V of toned muscles that had drawn John's eyes lower, to the slight curve that interrupted the smooth line of the towelling, causing his imagination to linger there.

Shaking his head, John tries to clear it of the enticing images before looking back at his food, his appetites most definitely lying elsewhere but he knows that he needs to eat whilst he can. He takes a deep gulp of the Austrian beer that he ordered with his meal and returns to his rapidly cooling chips. He'd ordered a simple meal of some sort of herb chicken, chips and salad. He had tried to convince himself it's because he wanted something quick on his first night, but he has to admit, it's because he thought it would tempt Sherlock to eat too. From the way Sherlock nicked one of his chips it seems he was right. John is still dwelling over the image of Sherlock in a towel and the cheeky wink, when the man himself re-emerges from the en-suite. His hair is drier now but still loosely curling around his head, no product keeping it under control tonight. A pair of faded cotton pyjama bottoms sit low on his waist and one of the hotel's fluffy white bathrobes sits loosely on his shoulders, the belt undone and threatening to trail on the floor.

"Not hungry, John?" Sherlock is leaning over the small table and looking at John intently, openly stealing a few chips and pieces of chicken.

John's eyes are darting between Sherlock's long fingers and his plush lips and he decides he's just too tired to deal with his whirling brain and seemingly out-of-hand libido.

"I think I underestimated how tired I actually am. I'm going to turn in." John tries to stifle a yawn as he stands from his chair. "I really should shower, freshen up from travelling, but honestly, I can't be bothered." 

"Go to bed, John. The shower will still be there in the morning." John can't help the little voice in his head that asks, 'Yes, but will you?' Clenching his jaw to keep the words in, John retrieves his pyjamas and toiletries, walking swiftly into the en-suite. Not quite quickly enough to miss the brief frown on Sherlock's face.

Five minutes later John is back in the main room, clean and changed and looking longingly at his bed.

"Just get in, John. You're almost asleep on your feet." Sherlock's rich voice is hushed in the gathering gloom and John can feel himself swaying with tiredness, eyes drooping.

"Half the joy is in the anticipation, Sherlock. Everything is better if you have to wait for it." His words slurred and quiet, he slowly pulls back the sheets on his bed before sliding into their welcoming embrace.

"Is that so, John?" John can hear the smirk in Sherlock's voice and it's only as he's drifting off to sleep that he realises that his words could be taken in quite a different way to how he'd meant them. A half smile on his lips, John finally gives in and sleeps.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John wakes in the early hours of the morning, the sky outside the French windows is still dark and he estimates it's about 3 am. Sherlock is sitting on his own bed, laptop resting on bent knees, his features highlighted in stark relief by the light from the screen. John doesn't think he has moved but Sherlock knows he's awake; his eyes are an extreme pale grey and oddly haunting in the strange light. John shivers when they quickly flick over in his direction.

"Did I disturb you, John?" Although Sherlock's attention appears to be back on his screen, John is very much aware that Sherlock is actually studying him instead.

"No." John's voice is sleep-rough and he swallows before continuing. "No. I probably shouldn't have had that beer before bed, my bladder is protesting now." He slides out of bed and pads into the en-suite, the flare of the overhead light making him flinch as he relieves himself. Washing his hands, John thinks about how considerate Sherlock has been since he'd moved back into their flat. He had thought that the consideration would fade as more time passed, but he's been back there for nearly six months now and this new Sherlock seems likely to stay.

Returning to the room, John notices that Sherlock has put the laptop down and slipped under the covers of his bed. He waits until John has climbed back into bed before shutting the lid down, extinguishing its light.

"Are you all done now?"

"For tonight. Sleep well, John."

"Night, Sherlock." John stares over at where Sherlock is lying, his night vision not yet working. Since returning from his time away, Sherlock has been better at eating, sleeping and talking - there are still times when he is all frenetic energy and sharp words, when he deems food and sleep beneath him - but these times are fewer and farther between. Before their two years apart John had always thought Sherlock was a bit of a brat, a genius, but a brat nonetheless. Now he seems more mature, more thoughtful. John is unsure if it is Sherlock's time away that enforced that change or John's absence from Baker Street. With this thought in mind John falls back into a thankfully dreamless sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since the spontaneous hug at his sham of a wedding, John's thoughts have returned time and again to how little Sherlock initiates physical contact. Sherlock hadn't precisely frozen at the wedding but he had stilled, his breath shallowing. It had troubled John that a casual embrace from his best friend had been so out of the norm that Sherlock had been too shocked to respond. Since moving back into Baker Street, John had been unable to resist the temptation to touch Sherlock more and had been relieved at how well received these touches had been. A hand on the upper arm whilst chatting to a group, his palm to the small of Sherlock's back when guiding him out of a room and - John's personal favourite - a quick squeeze at the nape of Sherlock's neck, often when passing him in a morning or when sharing a laugh late in the evening. Touches that he revelled in whilst in the privacy of Baker Street. A few weeks before leaving for Austria, Sherlock had started to return these gestures, always fleeting and tentative but very much welcomed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the magnificent Lockedinjohnlock!
> 
> Austrian translated by the fantastic Heyerette (she writes the most wonderful Bagginsheild stuff, go read!) 
> 
> I have done a HUGE amount of research into fireflies but I am by no means an expert, so please forgive any glaring errors!
> 
> I was going to be posting a new chapter once a day (they are all completed)but I'm afraid I'm just far too excited, so I'll post twice daily!
> 
> Thanks to Iriya for their help correcting my punctuation and grammar in the translations! Much appreciated!

John wakes slowly, taking his time to stretch; he enjoys the sense of peace that surrounds him. Really, it's such a shame that they are here on a case rather than a holiday; he'd love to spend such quality time with Sherlock, away from the demands of London. The thought of Sherlock makes John roll to face the single bed; he can't help smiling at the sight that meets him. Sherlock is almost completely wrapped in the sheets, only his face is on show, the covers pulled up round his head like a hood. John can't help thinking how beautiful Sherlock looks, even in sleep, dark eyelashes resting on flushed cheeks, full lips slightly parted and wayward curls resting on his smooth forehead. Perhaps sensing John's gaze, Sherlock wakes. There is plenty of time for John to look away but he finds himself fascinated by the scene before him. Eyelids flutter open, mouth widens in a yawn and finally the long, limber body stretches and breaks out of its cottony cocoon.

"Good morning, John." Sherlock's voice is sleep-soft and husky and John responds in kind, a smile on his lips. Neither man seems to be in a hurry to start the day, both happy to stay wrapped in their covers' embrace. John thinks it could only be better if they were sharing the one bed, the one set of sheets. Sensing his body starting to react to his thoughts, John curls into a tighter ball and makes a conscious effort to pull his mind away from the enticing vision.

"What's on the agenda for today then, Sherlock?"

Sherlock takes a moment to answer, seemingly pulling himself from deep contemplation.

"I'm going to make use of the local _Leichenschauhaus_ , morgue, and use their equipment to examine the dirt I took from the sole of Lechner's boot. The outer soil deposit was right for where we found him, but the older dirt was the wrong colour for that area. I want to retrace his steps by studying that dirt deposit. I also need to look more closely at the fireflies I found on him."

"Fireflies?" John is sure he must still be asleep, hair gems, dead diplomats and now fireflies.

"Yes, the beetles that were in his pocket. I thought I recognised them as European _glühwürmchen_ , fireflies, but there's something odd about them. We don't get many in the UK, negligible numbers, really, but there have been more regular sightings in Austria. I need to discover what they fed on so I can trace precisely where they came from."

"Oh. Do you need me at all?" John hopes the need to be near Sherlock isn't too obvious in his voice.

"I..... I'd be very grateful of your help, but if you'd rather look around the city I'll understand." Sherlock sounds unusually polite and hopeful.

"Of course, Sherlock. I'll come and help you cut up some poor little glow worms!" Grinning, John heaves himself out of bed and grabs his toiletries bag before heading into the en-suite.

" _Glühwürmchen,_ John!" John giggles at the sound of a very Sherlockian huff accompanied by the softer sound of a pillow hitting the dividing door.

 

Thirty minutes later finds both men washed, shaved, dressed and ready to head out to the morgue, the _Leichenschauhaus_ , as John keeps being reminded.

John enjoys his first experience riding a tram, the gentle rocking rhythm causing him to bump into Sherlock and on one memorable occasion make a rapid grab for him when they both lost their footing at an intersection. Shock had quickly morphed into laughter, only ceasing when both men averted their faces, sniggers muffled into the collar of their coats.

The morgue, John corrects to _Leichenschauhaus_  in his head, is housed in one of the city's older buildings, lending it a dignified air, a suitable resting place for the dead. Sherlock walks in with an imperious swish of his coat while John follows at a more dignified pace with nary a swish in sight.

 _"Könnten Sie Herrn Doktor Schmidt bitte mitteilen, dass Sherlock Holmes hier ist um ihn zu sehen?"_   (Can you tell Doctor Schmidt that Sherlock Holmes is here to see him please?)

The steady stream of Austrian impresses John. _Of course_  Sherlock would be fluent in the language and John really shouldn't be surprised by these things anymore. John is able to decipher that Sherlock is requesting to see someone but then his very basic understanding falters. The receptionist phones through and before long someone comes to greet them. The man in question immediately walks over to Sherlock and offers his hand. John has to fight to keep the shock off his face when Sherlock is then pulled into a hug; he can see that Sherlock had only frozen briefly before returning the embrace, patting the other man firmly on the back.

 _"Sherlock! Mein lieber Freund, schön dich wiederzusehen - und viel besser aussehend als bei unserem letzten Treffen."_ (My dear friend, good to see you again - and looking so much better than at our last meeting.)

The man talks away at high speed and John can do nothing but watch and try not to look too ignorant. The man, Doctor Schmidt he presumes, is of an age with Sherlock. Tall, but powerfully built, his green eyes flash with merriment as he looks between John and Sherlock. His hair is of a similar shade to John's, but worn much longer, the tips just brushing his shoulders. He is impeccably turned out in shirt, trousers and tie and John can't help but feel shabby next to him.

Sherlock looks over at John and inclines his head towards Doctor Schmidt. "John, this is Josef Schmidt, an old university colleague of mine and fellow scientist. Josef, this is my friend, John Watson." John's hand is suddenly engulfed in Josef's much larger one and he is extremely relieved when he is released after a brief, but powerful, shake. John quashes his jealousy about the embrace only being for Sherlock and what the implications of that may be.

 _"John Watson? Dein John? Du hast ihn gerettet. Ich wusste, du würdest das tun. Weiß er, was dir hier passiert ist?"_   (John Watson? Your John? You saved him. I knew you would. Does he know what happened to you here?)

John's ears perk up at the sound of his name, but the rest of the conversation is a mystery to him. He glances between the men in the hope that he can work out what is being said, but to no avail. Josef is studying him intently with something akin to awe on his face, which John finds confusing; what could possibly be awe worthy about him? Sherlock, on the other hand, is looking at him in a way that makes his skin heat and his breath catch. It's the same look John had glimpsed in the hotel room the night before. Hunger. This time Sherlock does not shutter the look away, but allows him to see it. Eyes the colour of the ocean seem to bore directly into John, silently willing him to understand. Swallowing roughly, John barely hears the words that are meant for Josef but said to him.

 _"Einen Teil davon, nicht alles. Nur das, was notwendig war. Und er ist nicht mein John .... Noch nicht._ (Some, not all. Only what was necessary. And he's not my John ..... Not yet.)

Before John can react to the look so clearly shown on Sherlock's face it is gone, the usual facade back in place. John is almost convinced that he imagined the look, except for the way that Josef is looking between them. Something had almost happened there and Josef had witnessed it. Clenching and releasing his fists in an effort to calm himself, John follows the rapidly disappearing Sherlock along the corridor. Josef walks beside him, but thankfully does not attempt small talk, John is fairly certain that words are currently beyond him.

~~~~~~~~~~~

It takes most of the day for Sherlock and John to do all the required tests. Occasionally, Josef pops in and chats to John in a friendly manner and before long John has forgotten his previous antagonism towards the man and finds himself thoroughly enjoying their talks. If John notices that Sherlock glances over more frequently during these times, he says nothing, but each look is locked into his memory, filed away for future examination.

The journey back to the hotel is quiet, Sherlock obviously deep in thought. John studies Sherlock's profile as they sit in the tram; he looks unusually pensive. The case is not drawing on Sherlock's resources in the way others have done, but he appears drawn, worried. John resists the temptation to pull him into an embrace - something so completely out of character that John wonders where the thought came from - instead he nudges Sherlock with his shoulder, gaining his attention.

"You all right?" John's frown matches Sherlock's.

"Fine." The frown fades from Sherlock's face at the bump of John's shoulder, but he still remains turned away. "Dinner?"

"Sounds like a plan. Back at the hotel, so you can tell me what you've found out?" Sherlock still isn't talking about whatever is playing on his mind, but he relaxes and rests against John.

"Of course." Sherlock gives John his half smile. "It's almost our stop, John."

John expects Sherlock to move away for what is left of their journey and is very pleasantly surprised when Sherlock remains leaning against him. The gentle press of his long body against John's side simultaneously makes him relax and tense.

Since the spontaneous hug at his sham of a wedding, John's thoughts have returned time and again to how little Sherlock initiates physical contact. Sherlock hadn't precisely frozen at the wedding but he had stilled, his breath shallowing. It had troubled John that a casual embrace from his best friend had been so out of the norm that Sherlock had been too shocked to respond. Since moving back into Baker Street, John had been unable to resist the temptation to touch Sherlock more and had been relieved at how well received these touches had been. A hand on the upper arm whilst chatting to a group, his palm to the small of Sherlock's back when guiding him out of a room and - John's personal favourite - a quick squeeze at the nape of Sherlock's neck, often when passing him in a morning or when sharing a laugh late in the evening. Touches that he revelled in whilst in the privacy of Baker Street. A few weeks before leaving for Austria, Sherlock had started to return these gestures, always fleeting and tentative but very much welcomed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes suddenly, immediately lurching to sit upright. Damp sheets pool around his waist and his heart is making a dedicated effort to escape his chest. Gasping, John leans over his lap, clutching at his soaked t-shirt. He squeezes his eyes shut, desperately trying to rid himself of the lingering dream images; Sherlock broken and bleeding on a London pavement; Sherlock bleeding to death on an office floor; Sherlock flat-lining on an operating table; Sherlock collapsing on the floor of their home, bullet wound re-opened; Sherlock; Sherlock; Sherlock...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise to any firefly experts out there, I did thoroughly research them, and then played with my findings for the purpose of this story! I've tried to keep it all as feasible as possible!
> 
> As usual huge thanks go out to the fabulous Lockedinjohnlock for her amazing beta skills and also for helping to sort out the lefts and rights in the embrace! It was all far too much for my poor little head to cope with! She is my beta, my thesaurus and my friend.

"The soil from Jonas' boots was, as I suspected, a mixture of several soils. The newer, lighter coloured soil was from London. Mixed in with that were some cement particles; I've sent the results to Lestrade, it should help him narrow down where Lechner was kept for the time he was missing. The darker, older soil is from here in Austria. Specifically Walderviertel. Unfortunately it's quite a vast area. I was hoping that the soil would yield more information. But, in conjunction with the Luciolinae, we do have some indication of where Lechner has visited."

"Luciolinae?" John takes a large gulp of his water and eyes Sherlock's plate, happily surprised to see how much has been consumed. Dabbing the napkin over his lips, John leans back in his chair, giving Sherlock his undivided attention.

"The European firefly. It's classified under Lampryridae, which is a family of insects more correctly termed as Coleoptera - winged beetles. They thrive in areas where there is plenty of rotten wood or forest litter, preferably at the margins of ponds and streams. Walderviertel translates as the 'Wood or Forest Quarter'."

"Why is it important that we know where he's been walking, Sherlock?" John folds his arms over his chest and resists the temptation to push his chair back on two legs. "If he still had the jewels he would hardly have chucked them in some pond somewhere!" He knows he shouldn't reinforce Sherlock's theory that everyone in the world is an idiot but sometimes he just can't resist winding Sherlock up a little, some harmless teasing guaranteed to get a reaction.

"Doesn't it seem odd to you that Lechner was walking around with a pocketful of dead fireflies?" As predicted, Sherlock rises to the bait, his quick silver eyes narrowing at John, exasperation clear in his features. "They're a clue John, a clue to where the jewels are now. Tomorrow we are going to visit Lechner's property here, locate the key to the code I found in the notes he made, and then find out where he has hidden the jewels."

John can't help feeling that this is rather a lot to achieve from a handful of dead bugs and some cryptic scribbles, but if anyone can solve it, it will be Sherlock. Grinning, John finishes his water before grabbing his stuff and heading off to the shower.

The running water soothes John's body but seems to give his mind free reign. He thinks again over the day. Sherlock had seemed friendly with Doctor Schmidt but he was sure that he could sense more to their history, something deeper than old university buddies meeting up again after a decade and a half.

Reaching for the shampoo, John muses over his enigmatic friend. In all the time they have known one another, he has never seen Sherlock show more than a fleeting interest in anyone, male or female, and certainly not a romantic or sexual interest. Rinsing the shampoo from his hair, John grudgingly admits that there was the 'thing' with Irene Adler, something he is still not sure how to classify, a blip on an otherwise clear horizon. Rubbing shower gel over himself; John thinks of Sherlock's sham of a relationship with Janine, and even now he feels a stab of jealousy. Crossly, John shakes his head: he has no right to be jealous of any relationship Sherlock may have had, or indeed, will have. However, seeing Sherlock kissing and caressing Janine had stabbed something deep within John. Thinking back on it now, with a relatively clear head, it's obvious the kisses were a sham - at least for Sherlock. She had supposedly spent enough time with him that she was comfortable walking in whilst Sherlock was bathing and moving furniture around; and yet, Sherlock had not looked like he was enjoying the close contact, the teasing. Even going so far as to screw his eyes up when they kissed. And that kiss, thinks John as he scrubs at his skin; that was no lovers kiss, there was no passion, no love, no lust. John switches the shower off, reaching for a towel as he steps out. He should have realised what was happening when Sherlock turned back from the door with any expression of caring for Janine wiped clean from his face. Slowing his energetic towelling-down, John acknowledges that the soft smiles that _he_ draws from Sherlock don't just suddenly disappear, they linger, and now John has the heated gazes that he is receiving from Sherlock to add to his growing suspicion that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock feels something more than friendship for his rather ordinary friend. Slipping into his pyjamas, John finally leaves the en-suite, secure in the knowledge that, on some level, he is vital to Sherlock.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John wakes suddenly, immediately lurching to sit upright. Damp sheets pool around his waist and his heart is making a dedicated effort to escape his chest. Gasping, John leans over his lap, clutching at his soaked t-shirt. He squeezes his eyes shut, desperately trying to rid himself of the lingering dream images; Sherlock broken and bleeding on a London pavement; Sherlock bleeding to death on an office floor; Sherlock flat-lining on an operating table; Sherlock collapsing on the floor of their home, bullet wound re-opened; Sherlock; Sherlock; Sherlock...

"Sherlock!" It is only when he feels a cool hand on the nape of his neck that John realises that he is shouting out. Instinctively he tugs at the other hand on his chest, pulling it over his pounding heart, clutching at Sherlock's arm with both hands. He fights hard to still his rocking body, forcing breaths in through his nose, out through his mouth. As his heart rate begins to slow he can hear Sherlock's voice, his mouth close to John's ear.

"It's ok, John. It's all right. Just breathe. I'm here."

John nods his head, once, twice, before gradually loosening his grip on Sherlock's arm. As he slowly calms, John becomes aware that Sherlock is half kneeling, half sitting by him, tucked close to his left side. The heat of Sherlock's body helps to soothe him more and he sags slightly. Sherlock's left arm is pressed against John's chest, his hand splayed protectively over John's heart. Sherlock's rhythmic rubbing at the nape of his neck calms John further, such simple touches grounding him.

"I'm ok, Sherlock. Thanks, erm," John flushes with embarrassment but battles on, determined to finish. "Thanks for being here." He is relieved beyond measure when Sherlock doesn't move away, merely loosens his hold against John's chest.

"Is this where I should ask whether you want to talk about it?" John can hear the hesitation in Sherlock's tones, knows how hard it is for Sherlock to even ask the question and for the first time, in a long time, John finds he wants to confide totally in Sherlock.

"You. The dreams were about you." The words are gritted out between clenched teeth. "I dreamt about every time ........ every hurt you suffered, every wound you received, every time you died." John takes a deep breath before continuing, his grip tightening once again on Sherlock's arm. "Every time I lost you."

The hold on his body tightens, he feels the fleeting touch of Sherlock's forehead against his sweaty shoulder, and the way the thumb at his nape pauses before rubbing more firmly. "I am sorry John. I never meant to cause you pain."

"It's fine, Sherlock. Just...." John pants, swiping his lips with his tongue. ".....Just don't do it again, hey?" He manages a weak smile before resting his weight against Sherlock.

"Never." John feels something akin to a hug as Sherlock briefly tightens his hold and squeezes his nape. "I promise."

Feeling exhausted from the sudden drop in adrenalin and lack of sleep, John can feel his eyelids drooping. The last thing he clearly remembers before sleep overtakes him is the steady beat of Sherlock's heart against his shoulder.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John ... I.." Whatever he was going to say is lost when John takes a small step back. The reaction had been spontaneous from John, knowing that, if Sherlock touched him now, he would be unable to resist kissing him. Then Sherlock would end up resenting him, either for an unwelcome kiss or for time wasted that should be spent on a case. John worries that he has hurt Sherlock's feelings, feelings that John had denied him capable of having for so long, but no, Sherlock nods slightly, hope in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the wonderful Lockedinjohnlock continues to be the most amazing beta ever, going above and beyond! Once again she helped me sort out the lefts and rights (I really can't visualise those!) trained my commas to behave and coaxed the shy semi-colon into use!

The first sound John hears is a steady thud, the second is deep, even breaths. Slowly, the realisation arrives that the sounds are coming from Sherlock. A Sherlock who is very deeply asleep. Loathe to disturb him, John takes stock of the situation. They are both lying on his bed, Sherlock sprawled on his back and John curled on his left side, his head resting on Sherlock's chest. His right arm is stretched over Sherlock's midriff, hand resting lightly on his side. His right leg has managed to insinuate itself between Sherlock's legs. Sherlock's left arm is resting over his torso, fingertips just brushing against John's abdomen, his right arm pinned beneath John's side, hand resting on the curve of his lower back. It takes a moment for John to work out how they had ended up in this position; he remembers his nightmare, the way that Sherlock had comforted him and, it now appears, stayed as he slept. John waits for the embarrassment of the situation to hit him, then waits some more - it doesn't come - and he allows himself to drift off to sleep again, the steady beat of Sherlock's heart lulling him into a deep and restful sleep.

The next time he wakes, it is to the sound of the shower and the sight of no Sherlock. It doesn't take a detective to work out where Sherlock is; what does confuse John though is how Sherlock managed to extricate himself without waking him up. Getting up, John shuffles over to the small coffee-making facilities in the room, intent on a strong coffee to shake off the last of his lethargy.

When Sherlock eventually emerges from the en-suite he is impeccably dressed in one of his suits, a new shirt adorning his slim frame, a mid blue that John can't help but notice accentuates the colour of his eyes.

Grabbing a handful of clothes, John disappears into the en-suite himself, a brief word of greeting passing between them as Sherlock heads towards the coffee, eyes intent on his phone. It seems they aren't going to talk about the events of last night. John is simultaneously relieved and disappointed by that thought. Deciding to take his time in the shower, he savours the sensation of the cool water washing off the residue of last night's sweat. His eyes are closed under the spray when Sherlock bursts in and John's first impulse is to cover his modesty before remembering that the shower cubicle is made of frosted glass and only the barest outline of his body is apparent.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock! Give a bloke some privacy!" John immediately feels contrite for snapping at Sherlock, especially after he had been so supportive the previous night. A towel suddenly appears at the edge of the cubicle, before being jiggled wildly at him. Peering out, he can see that Sherlock is facing away and discreetly looking at his phone, a faint flush apparent at the nape of his neck. Grabbing the towel, John wraps it securely around his hips before stepping out of the shower cubicle.

"Right, what was so bloody important that you felt the need to come charging in, Sherlock?" Grabbing another towel John starts rubbing his hair dry.

Turning around, Sherlock's eyes flick over John's wet chest, lingering slightly on the scar at his shoulder. "Austrianpolicecalledbreakin..." John's eyebrows lift at the sudden stammer, watching as Sherlock flushes and shakes his head before averting his gaze from John's wet torso. After a deep breath he speaks again. "The Austrian police have just called. They want us over at Lechner's apartment immediately. There's been a break-in."

John pauses, mid rub, noticing that Sherlock is distractedly kneading his right arm. "What's the matter with your arm?"

"What?" Sherlock follows John's gaze and is apparently surprised to see himself massaging his own arm. "It's nothing." He lowers his arm slowly, keeping his eyes away from John. The effort seems to be taking some serious control on Sherlock's part, the tendons in his neck pulling taut.

John licks his lips at the sight before him, at the long line of pale skin that has been exposed, the way that the thin shirt is starting to cling to Sherlock's body in the humid air. He is very grateful that Sherlock is turned away. He knows that the way he feels about Sherlock is written clearly in the lines of his body: he can blame the hot shower for the flush on his skin, the sudden cool air for the way his nipples have peaked, but he can think of no way to excuse the stirring of the towel wrapped around his hips.

"Sherlock." John flushes at the sound of his voice. It is desire-laden and he can only hope the slight echo of the bathroom is enough to disguise that.

Sherlock stiffens, before turning to face John, his eyes widening at the sight. He takes a half step towards John, his right hand drifting out towards him, before swallowing hard.

"John ... I.." Whatever he was going to say is lost when John takes a small step back. The reaction had been spontaneous from John, knowing that, if Sherlock touched him now, he would be unable to resist kissing him. Then Sherlock would end up resenting him, either for an unwelcome kiss or for time wasted that should be spent on a case. John worries that he has hurt Sherlock's feelings, feelings that John had denied him capable of having for so long, but no, Sherlock nods slightly, hope in his eyes.

"I'd better get dressed then. I don't think the Austrian police would appreciate me turning up at a crime scene in just my towel."

John feels the slow meander of Sherlock's gaze like a heated touch on his damp skin, the quirked smile making his heart pound. When at last Sherlock meets his eyes John can see his desire reflected there. "Probably." A slow breath, eyes lingering briefly on John's towel. "Dull, though."

John exhales as Sherlock snaps to attention and swiftly exits the room, making John realise how shallow his breathing had been. Suddenly John wants nothing more than to get this case solved and to have some quality time alone with Sherlock - preferably involving a bed.

It takes John less than ten minutes to shave, clean his teeth and emerge from the en-suite in dark jeans and a red shirt. Not quite as well turned out as Sherlock but he knows what works well on him. He forgoes a jumper or cardigan and just slips on his jacket and shoes, before turning to face Sherlock, intending to ask him where Lechner's apartment is and how they are going to get there. The question dies on his lips. Sherlock is looking at him with such naked want that John has to work hard to suppress the tremor of desire that threatens to take his legs out from under him. In an effort to appear unaffected, he sits on the edge of his bed and fiddles with his shoe lace. From the smirk on Sherlock's face, it is obvious that John is fooling no-one. Fortunately Sherlock does not call John out on his deception, merely shrugs on his coat, loops his scarf round his neck and heads towards the door. John remains on the bed a few moments longer, ostensibly sorting his shoes but actually still trying to calm his racing heart. Finally, John rises from the bed, privately pleased at how steady his walk is as he heads towards where Sherlock is now holding the door open for him. As he passes through, he feels the gentle touch of Sherlock's guiding hand at the small of his back. Turning his head, John can't help the broad grin he gives Sherlock.

The crime scene is some distance outside the city and the long drive gives John plenty of time to ponder his feelings and how things are evolving between himself and Sherlock. He may find talking about his emotions difficult but in the privacy of his own mind he has tried to become more honest. He knows that he has long had a latent attraction to certain types of men, but until now he has never acted upon it. He had never been strongly attracted enough to any to feel the urge to make a move, he doesn't feel like it's cowardice; more that the right man hasn't come along, until now. The initial spark of attraction he had felt towards Sherlock so many years ago had only grown. During Sherlock's time away - the dark years - that spark had become an ember, still burning but no longer guiding his way. Mary had lit her own flame within his heart and body but that had started to dim on Sherlock's return. It had diminished to barely a glimmer by the time John discovered she had tried to kill Sherlock but he had nursed it carefully for the sake of their unborn child. He had thought he would be able to encourage the flame to grow again, maybe not into what they had before but into something that could be used to give their child a supportive, loving home. He had been wrong. He had gone home (home? No it was never home) after Christmas determined to make a difference, to make that spark a flame again, but every move, every word, every gesture was met by cold-hearted spite on Mary's part. It had broken him down, made him feel less of a man. During this time he was aware that his feelings for Sherlock were stronger than they had ever been before, eclipsing anything he had ever, could ever, feel for Mary but he had missed his chance. He had chosen his wife over his best friend - as he believed a good man should.

Wincing at the memories, John shifts on his seat, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. The movement catches a previously deep-in-thought Sherlock's attention. Ice blue eyes sweep over John's form, narrowing as they take in John's face. Slowly, Sherlock moves his hand to John's knee, offering both solace and camaraderie. As is often their way, no words are spoken and yet John knows that Sherlock is saying. 'I am here for you, John.' The simple touch means more to John than any grand declaration of love ever could. Although, John thinks as he looks out of the window, a smile playing about his lips,   _that_ would be rather wonderful too.

His mind drifts back to his final weeks with Mary; they hadn't had sex since she had shot Sherlock. Initially, it had been because he was busy tending to Sherlock, then it had been because he just couldn't bear to be in the same house as her, let alone the same bed. When he had returned, she had tried to initiate intimacy on multiple occasions, all of which he had gently rebuffed. He had managed embraces and the occasional kiss but nothing more. Mary's ire had grown at the same rate as her stomach. She had vanished more and more frequently and John was not as surprised as she had expected him to be when she finally threw in his face the fact that he wasn't the baby's father. She had looked triumphant when she had spat the words out, sure that she had won. It had hurt, it had hurt a lot but he was damned if he was going to let her see his pain. He had merely clenched his fist, done a quick about-turn and packed his bags. Within the hour he had left - his few possessions next to him in a cab. His first thoughts had been to run to Sherlock, but he hadn't. He had initially gone to a hotel and then looked for a cheap flat, available for short term rent. He had stayed in the flat for 4 months, organising his thoughts, clearing the clutter from his head and heart. By the time he finally accepted Sherlock's repeated requests to move back in, he felt more like the man he used to be, the man he was before The Fall.

Since moving back in with Sherlock, the flame within his heart had remained steady and true, and he knew he would be happy even if they never became more than friends. But now, sitting in the back of a cab with Sherlock's warm hand resting on his knee and memories of heated looks in his mind, John began to let himself believe that they could become more. So _very_  much more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there you go ...... Earlier we had visions of Sherlock in the shower, today we have John........ And a thoroughly distracted Sherlock!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What did you order, Sherlock? I caught one and two in amongst it all, but I admit I missed the rest."
> 
> The look on Sherlock's face causes John's breath to catch; Sherlock has obviously licked his lips at some point and they now glisten in the late morning light; they part slightly in a secret smile, meant only for John. Sherlock's eyes are sparkling, bright blue-green today, and his voice when he speaks is teasingly intimate.
> 
> "What was it you said last night, John? 'Half the joy is in the anticipation. Everything is better if you have to wait for it.' Believe me, John. You'll be ecstatic that you waited for it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to Heyerette for her recommendations on what John and Sherlock order whilst in the cafe, and for her patience when answering random questions and translating even more random snippets of conversation!
> 
> As always, my heartfelt thanks go out to my Beta, Lockedinjohnlock, her comma taming continues! (Also, if you see a particularly good turn of phrase or word choice, it's probably hers!)

Lechner's home was in disarray, papers had been thrown about; books were leaning haphazardly against each other over the floor. The television screen had been broken, as had every mirror in the house, shards of glass sparkled in the mid morning sunlight, reflecting their rays over the surface of the dark wooden furniture. John watches, fascinated, as Sherlock carefully manoeuvres around the room. Sherlock's hands are tucked under his chin in their perpetual thinking position, his bright eyes are flicking from display case, to computer, to TV, to mirror and back again. John can almost see the thoughts running through his mind, the moment that he has an idea before rejecting it, showing clearly on his face. Finally Sherlock settles on one idea, his mouth open in a perfect 'O' as his head jerks fully upright. There is something about that particular look that has always made John's skin heat, and now, after the events in the bathroom, he can identify what it is; it is a facial expression he associates with orgasm. Now that he has consciously allowed the thought into his mind, John cannot clear the image of Sherlock orgasming, from his head. Flushing furiously, John excuses himself and wanders outside, leaving Sherlock to explain in rapid fire Austrian just what he has discovered to the police officer who had met them at the house.

"John?" Sherlock's voice pulls John from his distracted musings of the scenery. He has been standing outside for ten minutes and although he still hasn't got his mind under complete control, the red of his cheeks can easily be explained as the effect of the cool wind.

Turning to face Sherlock, John is surprised to see worry etched into the expressive lines of Sherlock's face. What had happened in the house? What had he missed to be causing Sherlock such worry over him? Was he in danger? Was Lechner's killer at large? It took mere seconds for these questions to flash through John's mind and seemingly less time for Sherlock to know what he was thinking.

"It's fine, John. I was ......" Sherlock pauses, apparently searching for an appropriate word, the frown line deepening at the ridge of his nose. "Concerned about you. You left the room so suddenly." A small smirk, "You didn't even stay to hear all my findings."

Sherlock's attempt to lighten the conversation makes John snort. "I'm OK, Sherlock. Just, erm, a little overheated." Again, John feels the flush rise on his cheeks and he silently curses his overly-active circulatory system. "Besides, you gave your findings in bloody Austrian." A wry grin curls at his mouth. "Look, there's a cafe over there, why don't we grab a drink and a snack and you can tell me all about it?"

The cafe is cosy and, despite the chill in the air, they decide to sit outside. John tilts his face back and allows his eyes to close; the sun feeling heavenly on his skin. John muses that the gentle warmth and Sherlock's quiet presence make for an almost perfect date.

When the waiter comes over, John lets Sherlock order for him, the richness of Sherlock's voice caressing John's ears.

 _"Zwei Melange und einen Apfelstrudel, bitte. Und zwei Gabeln dazu. Danke."_ (Two Melange and one Apfelstrudel, please. And two forks. Thank you.)

John leans onto the table, his elbows resting at the edge, his body angled towards Sherlock. He smiles as Sherlock mirrors his actions, their positions turning their outside table into an intimate setting for two.

"What did you order, Sherlock? I caught one and two in amongst it all, but I admit I missed the rest."

The look on Sherlock's face causes John's breath to catch; Sherlock has obviously licked his lips at some point and they now glisten in the late morning light; they part slightly in a secret smile, meant only for John. Sherlock's eyes are sparkling, bright blue-green today, and his voice when he speaks is teasingly intimate.

"What was it you said last night, John? 'Half the joy is in the anticipation. Everything is better if you have to wait for it.' Believe me, John. You'll be ecstatic that you waited for it."

John swallows hard, a crooked smile playing about his mouth. He is no longer sure if Sherlock is talking about their order or about something else completely. He hopes with all his heart - mind, body, soul - that Sherlock is flirting with him; that this is another step towards a change in their relationship. Licking his lips, John feels the need to speak. Feeling unsure of what to say, he decides to play it safe.

"I didn't think you'd remember that, thought you would have deleted it."

"I never delete anything important, John." Sherlock's hands are folded beneath his chin, the weight of his head resting gently on them. His gaze is still locked on John and John leans even further in towards Sherlock.

"I know, but that was just something _I_ said. A bit of sleepy nonsense really."

"You know how I hate to repeat myself, John, but as I said, I never delete anything important. What you say .." Here Sherlock seems to hesitate a little, some of his confidence fading. "What you say, John, it's important.   _You_ are important." A deep breath, the words hushed. "To _me_." Sherlock lowers his hands to the table and looks away.

John feels his heart swell a little more. The fact that he is important to Sherlock means the world to him and he has to swallow the lump that has formed in his throat. Looking over towards Sherlock, John can see that he has drawn his lower lip into his mouth and is pensively chewing on it, his gaze flicking back to John before glancing away. Taking a deep breath, John decides to do the bravest thing he has done to date; sod invading Afghanistan, piece of piss! Facing down snipers whilst strapped into a bomb? Childs play! What he is contemplating now is far harder; the outcome far more important, far more life altering.

Stretching his arm out across the table, John slowly allows his hand to rest over Sherlock's clasped ones. He eases their grip apart and takes Sherlock's right hand in his left, then rests his right hand over their joined ones, allowing himself to caress the back of Sherlock's hand with his thumb. He watches as Sherlock turns his head to focus on their hands.

"Sherlock?" The calm softness to his voice surprises John, inside he is in turmoil. In the past he has been the master of the subtle play, waiting until he saw a definite sign of interest before making his move; now he is doubting whether Sherlock meant anything beyond the fact that they are friends. Best friends. Gripping Sherlock's hand more firmly, he speaks again. "Sherlock?" He waits until Sherlock raises his eyes to meet his own steady gaze. " _You_  are important to _me_ , too. Always have been, always will be." The moment he can see understanding in Sherlock's eyes, John takes a relieved breath. Their whole future had revolved around how Sherlock would react to John's hand, John's words. Now John knows that they are both envisioning a future together; partners, best friends, _lovers_. The thought causes a shiver to run down his spine, a flush to rise to his cheeks. He is gratified to see a similar flush gracing Sherlock's handsome face.

They sit at their table, hands entwined, for a long, quiet moment. Sherlock's other hand has now joined in, fingers and thumbs caressing soft skin, exploring calloused fingertips, moving over scars. Neither man says anything; they simply enjoy the intimacy of the moment. Their gazes travel between staring at their joined hands to studying each other's face. It is only the arrival of their order that disturbs their isolation. The drinks are placed to the side of each man and the food - with two forks - is placed between them.

John draws back slightly and reluctantly untangles one hand, the barest minimum needed to drink and feed himself.

"Coffee and apple strudel?" John tilts his head to the side, delight colouring his voice, this little trip to the cafe is more perfect than he could ever have dreamed. A hot drink, a sweet treat and Sherlock's hand in his own, a little taste of heaven.

"The drink is called _Melange_. It's closest to a Cappuccino, without the cocoa or cream. Try it, you'll like it. Rich and sensuous on your tongue." Sherlock's voice is hypnotising, the circle his forefinger is drawing over John's pulse point, extremely distracting. "As you quite rightly observed, the food is Apple Strudel. The sweetness of the powdered sugar with the tartness of the apple is delicious. Try to get a bit that has sugar, pastry and apple all in one bite; it will make your mouth water." John's heart is pounding in his chest and he knows that Sherlock can feel the way his pulse is racing. He is impressed by how calm Sherlock is sounding, but is not deceived into thinking that Sherlock is unaffected. He can see the blush still staining Sherlock's cheeks, the throb of his pulse in his long neck, the huffs of heavier breathing.

Bringing his Melange to his lips, John takes a cautious sip, eyes closing in pleasure as the smooth bitter taste coats his tongue. "God, that's nice." His words are husky and when his eyes drift open Sherlock is eagerly watching him, his lower lip drawn in slightly between his teeth, his eyes bright. It seems John's pleasure is a shared experience, and doesn't that thought just ignite his blood? John's thoughts turn to each of them gaining pleasure from the other's reaction, a cycle of giving and receiving, culminating in orgasm. If John is very fortunate, the closeness will continue into post-coital embraces and sleepy chatter.

John reaches for one of the pastry forks and uses the edge to break off a small part of the Apfelstrudel; the pastry flakes easily and the apple appears rich and moist. Slowly, John brings the fork to his mouth, maintaining eye contact with Sherlock throughout. As the pastry brushes against his lips John allows his eyelids to flutter slightly and is gratified to see the action mirrored by Sherlock. The first taste causes his mouth to water and he closes his lips, sliding the tines against his lower lip as he withdraws the fork. A small groan escapes him; the colour on Sherlock's cheeks does not escape him - not a flush of embarrassment, but one of arousal.

Feeling emboldened, John cuts off another piece of strudel and guides it towards Sherlock's mouth, hoping that Sherlock will extend this strange little flirtatious experience they are having. Sherlock's full lips slowly part and he leans forward to carefully take the piece of pastry into his mouth. John watches, fascinated, as Sherlock chews and swallows, the action of his long throat mesmerising.

"I don't think I've ever had anything quite so delicious in my mouth before." Sherlock's voice is rich, smooth and John is briefly reminded of his coffee. Quirking an eyebrow, John risks some good natured teasing.

"Really? We'll have to do something to rectify that." He watches as a deep flush sweeps over Sherlock's cheekbones but his crooked grin is a sure sign of his agreement on the matter. The grins gradually turn into chuckles and both men release their hold on each other, constant touch no longer necessary.

"The sooner we get this bloody case finished the better."

"Quite."

Sherlock studies John a moment longer before raising his coffee to his mouth and draining his now tepid drink.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John?" Sherlock's voice is soft; John can't help but think how intimate it makes his simple name sound. Looking up from his coffee, he meets Sherlock's warm gaze. "You know that I count you as part of my work, don't you?" Perhaps sensing John's confusion, Sherlock hastens on. "I don't mean that I see you as my job, even I'm not that insensitive, rather, I don't need to choose between you and my work. You are equally important."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big love to my wonderful beta, Lockedinjohnlock, for her continued awesomeness (honestly, if the boys ever come visiting I will send them over to her - eventually!)
> 
> Huge thanks to Heyerette for all her translation work, for getting me interested in Empress Elisabeth and for all the wonderful historical conversations we've had since!
> 
> And a massive thank you to all those who have left kudos, comments or bookmarked me! It's an honest to goodness thrill to get such wonderful comments, it makes the hours of writers block much more bearable!
> 
> Once again, huge thanks to commenter Iriya for correcting my punctuation and grammar within the translations. Very much appreciated!

"John?" Sherlock's voice is soft; John can't help but think how intimate it makes his simple name sound. Looking up from his coffee, he meets Sherlock's warm gaze. "You know that I count you as part of my work, don't you?" Perhaps sensing John's confusion, Sherlock hastens on. "I don't mean that I see you as my job, even I'm not that insensitive, rather, I don't need to choose between you and my work. You are equally important."

John's heart swells at what he thinks Sherlock is trying to say, but for his own peace of mind he needs Sherlock to clarify that they are thinking along the same lines. Resting his head lightly against his right hand, he tries to affect a casual tone.

"No longer married to your work, then?"

"Well, I think it's a somewhat open relationship." He looks at John from beneath his eye-lashes, the smile that John adores curving his plush lips. "Or at least, it is where you are concerned."

"Ah, good to know." John knows that his face is now reflecting his inner joy and he cares not that he probably looks idiotic staring at Sherlock. Over half a decade ago he had tentatively tried to find out whether Sherlock would be interested in anything more than friendship, six years later, it seems he finally has a positive answer.

The arrival of their waiter prevents John from saying anything and he is secretly pleased at the interruption. Sherlock knows he can be a romantic, he teased him about it once after all; even gifting John with a small wink as he said it, but John is unsure how Sherlock would feel about being on the receiving end of such sentiment. Secretly, John believes that Sherlock is more of a romantic than he could ever be; the speech he gave about John at .... a past event ..... had almost moved John to tears, as had the gift of his music. John rouses himself from his musings to try and catch what Sherlock is discussing with their waiter. Once again though, the conversation is in perfect Austrian, so instead, he just enjoys listening to the cadence of Sherlock's speech and finishes his Melange.

 _"Haben Sie irgendetwas Ungewöhnliches im Haus da drüben bemerkt?"_ Sherlock makes a gesture towards Lechner's house and John presumes that Sherlock is asking the waiter if he knows anything about what has happened there.  (Have you seen anything unusual happening at the house over there?)

The waiter shakes his head and gives a small shrug. _"Nicht mehr als sonst. Der Hausbesitzer kam oft spät in der Nacht. Er war nicht viel unter Menschen, sehr eigen."_ (No more than usual. The home owner used to often arrive late at night. He didn't really mix with anyone; very private.).

Sherlock nods, seemingly unsurprised at whatever information he has gathered. _"Wann haben Sie den Hausbesitzer das letzte Mal gesehen?"_ (When did you last see the home owner?)

The waiter gathers up their empty cups, the two forks and the now empty apple strudel plate, his head tilted to one side in thought. _"Vor etwa einem Monat."_ The waiter now motions with his free hand towards the house. _"Es gab einen Einbruch in der Nacht. Ich habe die Polizei heute morgen alarmiert, als ich sah, dass die Tür einen Spalt offen war."_    (Approximately a month ago. There was a break-in overnight. I alerted the police this morning when I saw the door was ajar.)

Sherlock glances at John, before speaking to the waiter once more.

 _"Einen Apfelstrudel zum Mitnehmen, bitte."_   (Apple strudel to go, please.)

John grins at the table until the waiter leaves, before facing Sherlock directly. "More apple strudel? Still hungry?"

The look Sherlock turns towards John causes his breath to catch in his throat and a deep flush to rise up his neck. Sherlock's eyes are dark, their look almost predatory. He takes a breath and allows his gaze to drift over John's form, purposely lingering at his lips, the opening of his shirt, his belt buckle, the juncture of his thighs and his hands, before slowly wetting his lips and sweeping his gaze back up. "Not for apple strudel."

"Christ, Sherlock." John's words are breathless as he basks in the glory of being the recipient of Sherlock's intense focus.

Before John can articulate any thoughts, the waiter returns with a cardboard box containing, John presumes, more apple strudel.

Sherlock smiles up at the waiter as he pays their bill.

 _"Danke für Ihre Hilfe,......?"_ Sherlock pauses, obviously waiting for a response from their waiter.   (Thank you for your help, .....?")

"Angelo." John looks across at their waiter at the sound of such a familiar name.

 _"Danke für_ _Ihre Hilfe, Angelo. Ziemlich ungewöhnlicher Name den Sie da haben."_ Sherlock's eyebrow rises in query.  (Thank you for your help, Angelo. Quite an unusual name you have.)

" _Ja_ , _mein Herr. Meine Mutter_ _hat mich nach meinem Vater genannt. Eine Sommerliebe, glaube ich."_   (Yes sir. My mother named me after my father. A summer romance I believe.)

 _"Und Sie wollten ihn nie finden?"_ Sherlock's focus is fixed on Angelo, but he is rubbing absent-mindedly at his right arm again; John realises that he has seen Sherlock massaging at his arm at various points throughout their time at the cafe.  (And you've never wanted to find him?)

The waiter looks disgruntled at whatever Sherlock's enquiry had been, his voice more clipped than previously. _"Nein, mein Herr, mein Name ist alles, was ich von ihm brauche. Wenn das alles ist, mein Herr?"_ (No, Sir, my name is all I needed from him. If that will be all, Sir?")

Sherlock nods and hands the waiter a large tip, the waiter looks surprised at his generosity but accepts the tip nonetheless, inclining his head in thanks.

"Did I understand that correctly? Is our waiter's name really Angelo?" John's face is almost comically surprised, it seems like fate is most definitely taking a hand in getting him and Sherlock together.

Sherlock nods again. "A summer romance between his parents apparently." He winces and rubs at his arm again.

"I feel like I should be apologising for that." John gestures towards Sherlock's arm. "I suspect it happened when I fell asleep on you. You couldn't have been comfortable; you should have woken me up."

"Nonsense, John. You needed the sleep and I didn't mind. Any mild discomfort I may have now will pass."

"Well, the least I can do is help you with it. Maybe some massage when we get back to the hotel?"

"I look forward to it. Although, we won't be at the hotel tonight. I need to book us somewhere to stay closer to the Forest Quarter." A slight warmth of colour is apparent on Sherlock's high cheekbones.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The ride back to the hotel is companionable and Sherlock uses the opportunity to update John on his discoveries.

"The break-in was a ruse, designed to make it seem as if there was nothing new to discover there, but it was obvious that there _was_  something there."

"But why would someone go to all that effort? What were they trying to hide?" John queries. It's not that he resents their time out at Lechner's, far from it, but the investigation would have gone quicker without the disruption caused by the break-in.

"Excellent questions, John." Sherlock allows his gaze to linger on John before looking out of the window. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, thick notebook. The cover is of dark, unadorned leather, and a quick flick through reveals pages of cramped handwriting, the language Germanic in origin. Tucked into a pocket inside the back cover is a small package - brown paper slightly discoloured with age. "Another one of Empress Elisabeth's notebooks, it seems, to detail the exploits of her children in their adult years. Obviously it doesn't provide the answer as to where Lechner hid the gems, but I do believe it will provide the clue as to _why_  he took them."

"And what's in the package?" John carefully unwraps it, intrigued. "Hair?"

"Yes. Empress Elisabeth's, if I'm not mistaken. She was extremely proud of her hair John, let it grow very long; wore it in all sorts of elaborate styles. It really was her crowning beauty." Sherlock's long fingers reverently stroke the long lock of dark hair, before he wraps it up once again.

"This was at Lechner's? How did he get hold of it? I thought all of her personal effects were in the museum in central Vienna?" John studies Sherlock's reflection in the window, noticing his small nod of approval at John's questions.

"It was inside a hidden pocket within his mattress. The bedroom was in complete disarray, similar to what you saw elsewhere in the house, but the bed had been left relatively undisturbed. John, I think someone wants us to find these gems, someone who can't be seen to be involved." Sherlock's long legs are angled towards John, a deep frown rests at the bridge of his nose and his brow is furrowed. "It's the only thing that makes sense of all the facts. Lechner was taken whilst walking in London; he was kept somewhere that even Mycroft's sources couldn't find. Later, he turns up dead; a professional shot, quick and lethal. He was malnourished but not noticeably tortured, someone was after information from him but they were initially against using force on him. The shot was to silence him, to prevent him telling his story, which means there was something pertinent to tell. The firefly carcasses were left in his pockets, the dirt left on his shoes. My reputation is such, that it is obvious that I would be called in and that I would discover these things. Someone wanted us in Austria; someone wanted us to follow those clues."

"But who, Sherlock? Who would go to all that trouble?" John's own brow is now furrowed, trying to work the mystery out.

"I have my suspicions; suspicions that will either be confirmed or denied when we have those hair gems in our possession. Let's just say, I don't think this will be a case that you will be able to blog about."

"We seem to be getting more and more of those."

"Indeed." A small sigh escapes Sherlock. "When we get back to the hotel, I will locate a small _Ferienhaus_ , holiday cottage, near the Thayatal National Park in Waldviertel, which is where I believe Lechner hid the gems. You can hire a car for us for a few days; it's only a ninety five kilometre - about an hour and half's - drive from Vienna to Hardegg, but I'd rather work to my own time-table than that of public transport. Presuming we can make all the relevant arrangements, and leave as soon as we are packed, we should arrive mid-afternoon, which will give us enough time to start investigating the locale."

On arrival at their hotel, John excuses himself to visit the shop, before securing their car hire. By the time he arrives back at their room, Sherlock has booked a Ferienhaus and is busily re-packing. Turning to smile at John's arrival, he quirks an eyebrow at the bag that John is carrying.

"Just some supplies. I got some torches, as I thought we were likely to be out after nightfall. I also picked up a map of Thayatal National Park." John says, shrugging, valiantly ignoring the knowing look on Sherlock's face. Of course he would notice that the bag contains more than the items John has named. Trying to draw Sherlock's attention away from the bag, John enquires about where they will be staying.

"You managed to find us somewhere then? A _Ferienhaus_?"

"Yes, just outside Hardegg, but inside the borders of the National Park. Because of the location I could only get a small one, it has just the one bedroom." There is a twinkle in Sherlock's eye, but his tone is serious. He is giving John the chance to back out if he feels the need.

"I'm sure we'll manage just fine, Sherlock." The answering twinkle in John's eye and his mischievous smile, all the answer Sherlock requires.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is reading through the newly found notebook. Pages full of his spidery writing lie around his feet and his pen races across his Moleskine as he translates the secrets that Empress Elisabeth consigned to their pages so many decades ago. His feet rest up on the dashboard and the bend of his legs makes the perfect rest for the books. His dark curls are unruly from where his hands have been running through them and his lower lip is chewed red. Sherlock in research mode is a Sherlock deeply absorbed. Which is why, when one long fingered hand reaches across and briefly squeezes John’s knee, he reacts with a gasp. This provokes a low chuckle from Sherlock, who continues with his work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to my beta, Lockedinjohnlock for her support and guidance and being brave enough to tell me when something doesn't quite work. My writing is hugely better for her support and influence.
> 
> Thanks also to the lovely Iwassoalone for always having an encouraging word no matter how confused my work was!

John takes responsibility for the driving. He's relatively new to it and finds the idea of driving in a new country to be the right sort of challenge. The fact that concentrating on the route he is taking and using a car where the controls are on the opposite side to what he is used to, is a blessing; it keeps his mind from wandering over to what may happen with Sherlock later that night. One bedroom, lots of flirting, and supplies that consist of massage oil, lube and condoms, certainly point to the possibility of some very interesting, and active, times ahead. Smiling to himself, John once again focuses on the road, but not before glancing over at Sherlock.

Sherlock is reading through the newly found notebook. Pages full of his spidery writing lie around his feet and his pen races across his Moleskine as he translates the secrets that Empress Elisabeth consigned to their pages so many decades ago. His feet rest up on the dashboard and the bend of his legs makes the perfect rest for the books. His dark curls are unruly from where his hands have been running through them and his lower lip is chewed red. Sherlock in research mode is a Sherlock deeply absorbed. Which is why, when one long fingered hand reaches across and briefly squeezes John’s knee, he reacts with a gasp. This provokes a low chuckle from Sherlock, who continues with his work.

Their Ferienhaus is a beautiful stone cottage, ten kilometres outside of Hardegg. The small path and parking area is completely surrounded by trees, rendering the little dwelling very secluded and peaceful. John is struck by the beauty of the place; as much as he loves the hustle and bustle of city life, he could get used to a country escape very quickly. He's not sure how Sherlock would feel about so much peace and tranquility, but he's relatively certain he could find something for Sherlock to do to keep him occupied. Some of the many occupations that he could provide Sherlock with suddenly flood his mind and he stops mid-step on the way into the house.

"John?" Sherlock turns to look, his eyebrow raised. His voice is light but laced with concern.

"We're really doing this." It's a statement, but the slight inflection on the last word makes it seem like a question. John clears his throat and makes himself look Sherlock directly in the eye. He may sound nervous but it's not worry for what may happen, it's more the tremor of anticipation.

"By _this_ , you don't mean hunting the woods for hair gems, do you?" Sherlock steps forward and puts his hands on John's shoulders. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to do, John."

Feeling braver, John steps closer to Sherlock and places a sure hand on his waist, looking directly into Sherlock's eyes. He keeps his voice low and intimate. "There's the problem." His hand trails lightly over Sherlock's hip. "There's nothing I don't want to do with you, Sherlock. If you can think of it, it's more than likely I'll want to try it."

" _John_." His name is said on a breathy exhale; he can see colour flooding Sherlock's cheeks and the rapid dilation of his pupils. Gratified with the response, he allows his hand to linger a moment longer, before stepping away and continuing into the house.

The interior is simple but cosy. A quick walk round reveals a small living room and kitchen on the lower floor and a double bedroom and well-appointed bathroom on the upper floor. John unpacks their bags and stores their clothes before taking a deep breath and putting the lube and condoms beneath one of the pillows. He places the massage oil on one of the bedside tables, running his hand along the soft bed-covers before he returns to the kitchen with the map and torches.

Taking the map, Sherlock opens it and finds their location. Scanning it, he locates the nearest water sources and tells John where they are going to search. Going by the dirt traces on Lechner's shoes and the content of the fireflies' stomachs he is certain they can isolate the precise area tonight. John is not so hopeful; the area is vast but he trusts Sherlock's superior knowledge of what they are looking for and his own skills in getting them back to the cottage later.

Twilight is setting in when they finally reach the area Sherlock is most interested in. They haven't needed to use the torches so far, instead they have allowed their eyes to adjust to night-vision with the gradual onset of darkness. The ground is slightly wet and there are areas of still, shallow water. Logs and leaves lie scattered around, seemingly undisturbed. Several knotted and gnarled trees surround the area, their branches reaching into the darkening sky.

Sherlock is now muttering furiously to himself, pacing quickly, his hands in his hair.

"What are we looking for, Sherlock?" John works on keeping his voice calm and focussed; he knows that at moments like this, Sherlock can easily become surly and short tempered.

"If I knew that, John, I would have the hair gems in my hand!" Sherlock gives John a look that clearly reads as 'you idiot!' John huffs but remains patient.

Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, before moving through the long grass towards John. John watches in wonder as small creatures take flight. Their glow gives away their identity - fireflies. Their soft light highlights the sharp angle of Sherlock's cheekbones and the sensuous curve of his lips. John is spellbound at the ethereal beauty of the man before him; he walks to meet Sherlock and places his hands on Sherlock's hips.

"You're so gorgeous."

Before Sherlock has a chance to respond, John stretches up on tip-toe and presses his lips against Sherlock's. The kiss is chaste but lingering. He moves his left hand to cup the back of Sherlock's neck, sighing into the kiss when Sherlock leans down slightly and parts his lips. Strong hands grip at his waist and John pushes more firmly into the kiss. The slight prickle of stubble rubs along his lips and the sensation sends a rush of goosebumps along his flesh. Sherlock groans and it sounds rich and deep in the still, night air and his long fingers flex against John's skin as their tongues meet for the first time. Warm breath caresses cool cheeks and John opens his mouth further, encouraging Sherlock's tongue to enter deeper. His right hand has now drifted down to the curve of Sherlock's behind, and John gives in to the temptation of squeezing it. He gasps sharply when Sherlock arches into him - the feel of Sherlock's burgeoning erection presses into his stomach and his own body is suddenly responding in kind. He moves his hand from the nape of Sherlock's neck up, his fingers twining in the soft curly hair. Both men's breath is now coming fast and their hips are rocking steadily against each other. John slowly breaks the kiss but leans into Sherlock's embrace. He can feel soft kisses against the top of his head and he wraps his arms around Sherlock, holding him in a firm embrace.

"What brought that on, John?" Sherlock is breathless but his smile is apparent in the richness of his voice. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you."

"The fireflies. You just looked so gorgeous and I'm afraid I couldn't resist any longer. The light from them as they flew round you just created the right sort of atmosphere, I suppose. I've wanted to kiss you for ages, just now finally seemed like the perfect time."

Surprised, John feels himself being suddenly shoved away. Raising his face to protest, his words die on his lips when he sees the look on Sherlock's face.

"Oh!"

"Sherlock? What is it?"

"Oh! Idiot! I'm such an idiot! Thank heavens I have you to illuminate things for me!" Excitement shines from Sherlock's face as he stares at John.

"Erm, thanks, but what have I illuminated this time?"

"Fireflies! Don't you see?"

"I see lots of fluttering bugs with glowing arses, flying around our heads, but I'm afraid I don't see what is so wonderful about that!" He grins sheepishly. "Well, the kiss was rather wonderful."

Sherlock grins shyly before waving his hands expansively. "In the European firefly, it's only the female that glows, but the female is flightless! That's what I missed in the lab! They were all female carcasses in Lechner's pocket, but all had wings! This part of Austria has only been recently opened up to public access, it's been undisturbed for decades, lots of unique creatures have evolved here, including, it would seem, these glorious female flying fireflies!" Grabbing John by the shoulders he shoves him towards some of the trees. "Use your torch and search in all the hollows; it won't be in the ground as it would damage the gems, look at about mid-height, John. The hair gems are here!"

The next ten minutes are filled with frantic searching and scrabbling. Their hands are filthy and their lower arms are scratched before John's fingers finally settle on a package, wrapped in water proof canvas, buried deep within a hollow tree.

"Sherlock! Over here!" John removes the package and slowly unwraps it. He can sense Sherlock standing behind him as the hair gems are finally revealed. Both men stare at their haul for a long moment before John wraps them back up, hiding their lustre. "Wow, solved by fireflies!"

"Some people consider the firefly to be an ugly creature, but it's because they don't understand them, John." Sherlock's face is wistful, his gaze fixed on John's face. "It is a bit odd looking, I suppose, a little alien-like. But when it is in the correct environment, existing where it is supposed to be; then, John, then it is beautiful. Then the true worth of the firefly is seen and it glows all the more brightly for it." Sherlock's face is lit once again by the light the fireflies cast, his features soft and other-worldly.

John moves closer and raises his free hand, lovingly cupping Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock falls silent and leans into John's hand, his own coming up to cover it.

As if on an unspoken signal, they drift closer together. John keeps his eyes on Sherlock's face, watching as his eyes drift closed. He stills, committing the view to memory, before slowly, carefully, pressing his lips against Sherlock's. It's every bit as wonderful as their first kiss and John is secretly relieved that their powerful chemistry is not just that of unrequited lust. The kiss is brief this time and John leans away slightly, so he can study Sherlock once more. Sherlock's eyes remain closed a few moments longer, his lips slightly pursed, both hands now reverently bracketing John's face. John resists the temptation to kiss those lips again and finally, Sherlock's eyes slide open, the light of the fireflies reflected in them, their natural gold flecks now enhanced by the golden glow of the fireflies.

Sherlock lowers his hands from John's face; John barely has time to mourn the loss of Sherlock's touch before his hand is being held in the firm grasp of Sherlock's own. Sherlock leads them over to the shelter of a large tree before pulling John into a seated position next to him. He continues to hold John's hand in his own, eyes minutely studying John, before returning to gaze at the fireflies.

"I adore bees, John, find them utterly fascinating." John is a little confused by this turn of conversation, but he knows Sherlock will explain in his own good time. Holding Sherlock's hand a little tighter, he rests his head against Sherlock's shoulder. "Did you know that, like bees, firefly numbers are declining?" Sherlock rests his head on John's, bringing their joined hands up to his lips. The kiss he bestows is the barest of caresses but it takes John's breath away. "When I was a very small child I used to think that fireflies were little bees. Special bees that held lanterns to guide all the lost creatures home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was the kiss that I imagined that brought a whole story to life! Sherlock surrounded by fireflies.......
> 
> As I've said before I've taken some liberties with the fireflies!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surely it's obvious, John?" Even in the dim light, the soft smile and teasing twinkle in Sherlock's eye is easy to see.
> 
> John nudges against his side, briefly squeezing his hand tighter. "Not to me. So come on then, genius, enlighten me." The word 'genius' slips from his lips in much the same way as the words beloved, darling and love may slip from another's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! I'm stunned by the wonderful responses I've had to this story! Thank you so much! I see other writers saying that comments keep them going, and honestly, it's the utter truth. Yes, I think we write what catches our imagination, but knowing it touches others is what makes us continue! (Oh my, I just admitted I'm a writer!)
> 
> Thanks go to Heyerette for giving me suggestions of National Parks and then telling me about the holiday cottages.
> 
> I'm running out of ways to thank my wonderful beta, Lockedinjohnlock, so, this time, I'll just say thank you for everything, you make me a better writer.

The walk back to their cottage is peaceful, tranquil in only the way a wood at night can be. Small animal sounds snuffle into the midnight air and a cool breeze blows against John's cheeks, before ruffling Sherlock's hair. The walk back seems somehow longer than their walk to the jewel site, but John is not thinking of the time travelled, rather he is concentrating on the precious things he holds. In his right hand he is clutching a tattered canvas bundle, inside which rests old, yet valuable, hair gems; in his left he holds something far more precious to him, something priceless. In this, his dominant hand, he holds the hand of the man he loves; a man who, like him, has survived being broken and returned stronger for it, has learned to find his humanity and embrace it, and, so very much like John, has decided that the time has finally come for the long, lingering, _powerful_  attraction between them to be acted upon. Coincidentally, it is also the same man who is covered in broken twigs and smudges of mud and who has earth caked under his fingernails. Looking to the side, John grins up at the man walking beside him; Sherlock, finally, _his_ Sherlock.

"Come on then, I know you're dying to tell me. How did you know where to look?" It's not the soft words of love that he may be expected to utter when walking hand in hand in the moonlight with the man he is going to spend the rest of life with, but it is much more true to their relationship; words of love from him will come later, of that he is certain, when they are wrapped around each other, sweaty and sated.

"Surely it's obvious, John?" Even in the dim light, the soft smile and teasing twinkle in Sherlock's eye is easy to see.

John nudges against his side, briefly squeezing his hand tighter. "Not to me. So come on then, genius, enlighten me." The word 'genius' slips from his lips in much the same way as the words beloved, darling and love may slip from another's.

"If you insist. Do you remember what I said about the habitat of the firefly, John? They like undisturbed areas, preferably with plenty of places to nest; forest debris and long grasses for example. They also prefer to be near to water sources or places of standing water; all of which we encountered where the jewels were hidden." Sherlock's voice is soft, almost hypnotic but full of joy; joy of a case solved and, John hopes, of the night to come.

"Ok. That makes sense, but this area is vast, how did you know to come precisely here?"

"Lechner, was a very private man. Any records he kept were in code, he rarely visited his own house in daylight hours and even his ex-wife said that she barely knew him at all." A pause, John knows that Sherlock is hoping he will be able to finish off where this line of thought is going, but he can't, not tonight. "I was able to ascertain that he frequently rented out properties here in Thayatal National Park. I triangulated their positions and they all centred on that precise part of land. I was able to see from the map, that you kindly provided, where the water sources were, and that, added to the information the dirt from the soles of Lechner's shoes and the contents of the fireflies stomachs provided, was enough to narrow the search right down. Although, we could still have been searching all night if you hadn't brought my attention to the flying females surrounding me."

"You're more than welcome." John grins, even as heat floods his cheeks at the remembered kiss and resulting embrace. "So, what happens now? Will you call the authorities when we get back to the cottage?"

"No need, John. By lunchtime tomorrow, I believe we will be having a visitor; until then we will keep the hair gems close by."

Their slow ramble finally brings them back to the front door of their cottage and doubt finally starts to worry at John. He has never been sexually intimate with a man, never given in to the urge for a quick fumble to slake his lust, and what awaits him tonight is far more important than a frantic gasp and thrust. His palm is beginning to sweat but he is loath to release Sherlock's hand, even though he is sure that Sherlock is able to deduce his thoughts.

"John? There's no need to worry, I'll take care of you." Sherlock's eyes are soft as he pulls John into an embrace.

John laughs nervously, the sound awkward and muffled against Sherlock's shoulder. "Aren't I supposed to be the one saying that to you? I'm supposed to be the worldly soldier with conquests worldwide - that's a lie, by the way - I'm the medical man, I'm supposed to know how this all works!" His voice rises towards the end of his speech and he presses his lips to Sherlock's neck, both in apology and to make himself stop, to give himself time to calm down slightly. "I'm sorry. It's just....." A deep breath, the space of a heart beat. "I've ...... Sod that ....... _We've_ , waited too long for me to fuck it up now."

Long fingers massage at the nape of his neck, soothing some of the tension away, while warm kisses brush against his hairline. "You won't, John. I trust you; now you need to trust me. We are in this together. I'll take care of you, of us. Whilst it is true that I am technically, physically, a virgin...." A deep groan breaks free of Sherlock's mouth as John nips along his jawline. "I am far from being one intellectually. I have had years, John, _years_  to think about, and research, all the things I want to do to you, for you to do to me, for us to explore together. And I assure you, I'll be very good at putting theory into practice." He dips his head down and is rewarded with a deep kiss, their tongues teasing and tangling.

"Fuck, Sherlock, just........ Fuck." John knows he's never been considered a man of many words but even those few have escaped him now. He can feel the heat radiating from Sherlock, can feel the way his own blood is pounding in his veins, the way his arousal is growing and pulsing, he has never felt desire so intensely, so profoundly. 

"Most assuredly." Sherlock's voice is wicked and John feels the dark throb of it directly in his groin, his cock heating and filling from nothing more than a kiss and a few heated words. He knows in the depths of his soul, that Sherlock is going to consume him, devour him; and, God help him, he can't wait.

Long moments pass - the night air filled only with the sound of strong, soft lips gliding against plush, full ones - before John is able to withdraw himself from Sherlock. He nods, a firm little gesture, signifying that a decision has been made.

"Right. Before this goes any further we need to light a fire in the bedroom, store the gems somewhere safe, clean all this dirt off ourselves, and.... "John holds up one hand, when he sees Sherlock getting ready to interrupt. "And....." He reiterates. "...I'm going to look at that arm of yours."

He can see Sherlock pout slightly and has to bite back a giggle, the man seems to be able to swing from sexually devastating adult to spoiled teenager in the blink of an eye. John deliberately turns his back and opens the cottage door; he passes the hair gems to Sherlock to store somewhere safe and then moves upstairs to the bedroom. The fireplace is well-equipped, and kindling and matches are already set out. John lights one of the long matches and watches as the dry wood of the kindling catches alight. He can hear rustling behind him as Sherlock puts the gems away but keeps his focus on the firelight in front of him. Watching the dancing flames is somehow soothing and he allows his mind to drift. He ruminates on how their relationship is similar to this fire; how the possibility of it has always been in existence, just needing something to put light to the kindling, in this case the fireflies. The kindling finally catches enough to allow John to put a few dry pine logs on the fire, careful not to smother the flame. Distantly, he hears Sherlock leave the room, followed by the sound of running water. His gaze is lost in the firelight, watching the way the flames lick at the logs. His relationship is at this stage with Sherlock, a wrong move and the whole thing could go out, but he instinctively knows that their relationship will ignite and grow, in the same way that the fire will flourish. It seems only seconds later that he senses Sherlock's presence once more. Rousing himself, he can tell from the way the logs have caught that it has, in reality, been closer to five minutes. He puts up an intricately woven iron fire-guard to protect the room from any sparks, carefully positioning a soft sheep-skin rug near the fire.

Finally, he turns to face Sherlock and his breath stills in his throat. They had neglected to put on any lights when they entered the cottage, working instead from their latent night-vision; now the firelight dances over Sherlock's shirtless torso, the trim muscles of his chest and stomach thrown into devastating relief. John swipes his tongue over suddenly dry lips and tries valiantly to move his eyes away from the sensuous view in front of him.

"I'll just......" The words are husky, trapped in John's throat by his rising arousal. Clearing his throat, he tries again. "I'll just go and wash up. There's massage oil on the side there, put it somewhere warm to heat up. I won't be long."

A deep chuckle follows him as he walks towards the bathroom, its warm tones enhanced with an ardent, 'Yes, John.' that makes the hair on the nape of his neck rise and heat pool in his groin. John makes short work of washing up thoroughly, years of prepping for surgery in difficult conditions coming to the fore. He hesitates for a moment before stripping his own shirt off. Years of chasing after Sherlock have kept him trim, the small amount of weight he put on during his unhappy marriage now long gone. He rubs his hands briefly over his torso, in many ways he looks better now than he has. His muscles are still apparent but softened by a thin layer of flesh, his shoulders are broad and strong, marred only by his scar. His stomach is, perhaps, not as trim as he'd ideally like it to be, but, all in all, he thinks he will pass muster. His eyes drift back to the gunshot wound on his shoulder; it's not the red, inflamed mess it was when he first moved in with Sherlock, but it is still not a pretty sight. Previous partners had avoided touching it if possible, reacting like it was some sort of contagion. He hopes that Sherlock will be able to cope with it; after all, he bears scars of his own now. That thought brings a lump to John's throat and threatens to stamp out the ember of John's desire, viciously he quells it; now is not the time to dwell on the past, he has a future to create.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I want to taste the sweat from your skin; the saliva from your mouth." Sherlock's voice is a deep velvet richness and John can feel himself drowning in it. Hearing those words, in _that_  voice causes John to choke out a noise, it's a mix between a whine and a groan but he's far too turned on to be embarrassed. "I want to, I _need_ to, taste the semen from your cock."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *embarrassed shuffling* so this is where the story really starts to gain its explicit rating....... 
> 
> As always huge thanks to the magnificent Lockedinjohnlock and this chapter is especially dedicated to her and her love of fireplaces and rugs!
> 
> I'm also going to take the opportunity to say thank you for all the wonderful comments, every single one is treasured and makes a huge difference to me, personally and artistically.

Finally, he leaves the bathroom and walks back to the bedroom. Sherlock is lying on his back on the bed, his long limbs are relaxed and his hair makes a dark halo on the pillow. His eyes are closed and John uses the moment to look his fill. As his eyes travel over Sherlock's body he notices that the button to Sherlock's trousers is undone, the waistband of well-fitting dark blue boxer shorts apparent. He realises that he must have reacted vocally as Sherlock lazily opens his eyes and beckons John over with one imperiously crooked finger.

"John." His name is nothing more than a drawn-out sigh and he gulps before moving to sit on the edge of the mattress. "Guess what I found under the pillow when I put the massage oil under it to warm?" Heat floods John's face even as desire pools in his groin. "You've been shopping." The words hang heavy in the warm air. John manages an affirmative sound but no more words are forthcoming. "Such a good soldier to be prepared." The simple praise causes to John to tremble; how the hell Sherlock is turning John on so much with just a few phrases is beyond him. He suspects it's the deep velvet of the voice itself, caressing him, raising goose bumps and causing his cock to harden, but, quite honestly, he doesn't care, just as long as the deep pleasure continues.

Reaching for the now-warmed massage oil with a trembling hand, John attempts to clear the fuzz in his mind, at least enough that he can get the damn top off the bottle and appreciate the feeling of Sherlock's skin beneath his hands. After a few aborted tries, John succeeds in unwrapping the seal.

"Ok." John takes a deep breath to face the task ahead. Slowly his hands stop trembling and his heart adopts a more sedate rhythm; he can do this. "I want you sitting up first, right side turned towards me, in fact, let's move this closer to the fire, help retain body heat."

John watches, mesmerised as Sherlock slowly eases from the bed and onto the sheepskin rug, before following him over. The firelight plays over flat, firm muscles and caresses the alabaster skin; shadows dance over the planes of high cheekbones and mischief twinkles in starlight eyes.

"As you wish, John." Sherlock's voice is deep and intimate, encouraging John to move in even closer.

John moves so that he has easy access to Sherlock's right arm and flicks up the cap of the bottle, pouring a generous amount onto his palms. Rubbing his hands together, he spreads the oil out evenly before taking Sherlock's upper arm in his hands. Initially, he keeps his touch light but firm, sweeping his palms over warm skin, taking note of how defined Sherlock's biceps and triceps are. The oil allows his skin to glide over Sherlock's, the repetitive action pulling a low groan from Sherlock, and John bites his lip in an effort to keep his own murmur in check. A small noise must have escaped him though, as Sherlock turns a hazy gaze in his direction. The contact between them is negligible in the grand scheme of things but the promise of what is to come, and the firelight, seems to be amplifying simple looks and gestures. Sherlock's head remains turned in John's direction, his eyes studying John's face, not dissembling, just observing. John squeezes Sherlock's arm a little more firmly, then starts to work his fingertips into the tight muscle he finds there. His oiled fingers slide over Sherlock's skin and he is able to feel each bump and ridge of muscle and sinew, each dip of scar or rise of freckle. John knows, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he wants to spend days running his hands over Sherlock, mapping out each contour, memorising each feature. But, for now, he contents himself with pressing his fingers into the knotted muscle of Sherlock's arm as, gradually, he feels the tension dissipate, before trailing his left hand up on to Sherlock's shoulder. The muscles twitch under his questing touch and Sherlock moans, his honey-toned voice heavy with desire.

" _John_." It is now John's turn to moan as he feels Sherlock's breath on his hand, followed by Sherlock's warm lips caressing him. The touch of a warm tongue between his fingers causes his breath to falter, before gulping in a deep gasp at the firm touch of a hand on his shoulder.

"Sherlock, I......." His words are taken from his mouth as soft, full, lips cover his own, their touch sublime. John angles his body to deepen the kiss, turning so that their chests are almost touching, bare skin to bare skin. The kiss is slow and deep, each sweep of Sherlock's tongue against his, making John feel euphoric. It seems amazing that he has survived all this time without the touch of this man against him. He feels Sherlock shift and moans in discontent when the kiss breaks, leaning forward, trying to recapture it.

"John. Lie back for me." Large, strong hands curl over John's shoulders and ease him back. Sherlock moves with John until John is fully reclined on the rug, Sherlock bracing on his arms, tension apparent throughout his lean frame as he works to keep his body from pressing onto John's. A light sheen of sweat covers his skin and it glimmers in the firelight, his body a flushed dusky pink and his hair is tousled.

John presses up for a kiss, sighing against Sherlock's lips. "God, Sherlock, you're so beautiful." John is close enough to see when more colour floods Sherlock's cheeks.

Finally, Sherlock eases his chest down onto John's, a moan escapes them both at the touch of their skin before being muted in a firm kiss. John raises his hands to cup Sherlock's face before sliding his right hand to the nape of his neck, deepening the kiss still further. John had always thought he was a good kisser, but the way that Sherlock is kissing him, he knows that all of his previous experiences were just mockeries of a kiss; Sherlock's heart and soul is apparent in these kisses and John allows his to show too. Tilting his head back, he silently encourages Sherlock to explore the skin of his neck; gentle nips along his jawline to beneath his ear cause his eyes to roll and his hands to clench. His left hand closes in a fistful of curls and Sherlock's resulting groan into the curve of his neck causes John to thrust up with his hips. The feel of Sherlock's erection, trapped though it is under material, wrenches a guttural groan from John and he sweeps his hands down Sherlock's back to clutch at his backside. Instinct is kicking in completely now and John writhes under the gentle pressure of Sherlock's pelvis against his own.

"More...... Oh God........ Sherlock, I need more." His words are panted into Sherlock's arched neck. Sherlock responds with a firm glide of his hips over John's. His elbows are now braced either side of John's head, his fingers buried deep into the pile of the rug, his face hangs down and he peppers John's skin with kisses before sealing his lips over John's, the kiss languid and slow. His hips move in the same rhythm, each sure stroke sliding Sherlock's open trousers further down his narrow hips and catching at the waist of his boxers. Slowly, Sherlock slides his right hand down over John's heaving chest, stopping only when he reaches the top of John's jeans. John arches up in an attempt at more contact but Sherlock simply flicks the button open and slides the zip down. For a moment he lets the back of his hand rest, hot and heavy, on John's abdomen; John arches again and again and uses one hand to push his jeans down to his thighs before grabbing on to Sherlock's backside once more. He clenches his buttocks and pushes up at the same time as he pulls Sherlock down, the resultant deep thrust causing the head of Sherlock's erection to escape the confines of his boxers.

"John!" His name is a bitten off gasp and he glories in the feel of slick, hot skin against his. They are rocking together more desperately now, pre-come dampens the front of John's boxers. He is utterly aroused but in awe of the care that Sherlock is taking of him. He feels loved, cherished, surrounded by the man who has saved his life, in so many ways, time and time again; he only hopes that he is making Sherlock aware of his love and devotion too. The pace quickens and Sherlock groans, sliding his long fingers into John's short hair. He tilts John's face up and meets his gaze, their rocking continuing.

"I want to taste the sweat from your skin; the saliva from your mouth." Sherlock's voice is a deep velvet richness and John can feel himself drowning in it. Hearing those words, in _that_  voice causes John to choke out a noise, it's a mix between a whine and a groan but he's far too turned on to be embarrassed. "I want to, I _need_ to, taste the semen from your cock."

John can't hold back any longer and he pulls Sherlock down, mashing their lips together, the kiss is hard and frantic, the pace of their thrusting picking up to match. One hand clutches Sherlock's arse and his heart pounds at each clench and release of powerful muscles beneath his fingertips; his other hand is wrapped in Sherlock's hair, pulling Sherlock further into the kiss. Sherlock is not resisting in the slightest, his breath comes in sharp huffs against John's cheek and his tongue is probing John's mouth, tracing and tasting, the sensation driving John close to the edge. Just when he thinks that he is at the point of spilling against Sherlock, Sherlock pulls away and stills his hips.

"G...G... God, Sherlock! Don't stop now!" John writhes in the softness of the sheepskin rug, fine tendrils sticking to the sweaty skin on his back. His breath is coming in gasps, his voice choked and hoarse.

"Oh, I won't! But I said I'd take care of you, _let_  me take care of you, John." He gives John no chance to react before he slides down John's body, trailing soft, open mouthed kisses against salty skin. John pants and clenches at the woollen pile; he is so desperately turned on that he aches, his lungs, his thighs, his cock. Sherlock's lips and tongue soothe and lave over a heaving chest, against trembling thighs before he finally, God, _finally_, turns his attention to John's cock.

"Jesus Christ!" The words are wrenched from John as he is engulfed in warm, wet, _Sherlock_. The sensation is so much more than he's ever experienced before; he wants to look down, to see where his body is being tenderly held, but he knows that seeing his cock in Sherlock's mouth will be too much for his self control. It becomes apparent extremely quickly that Sherlock has indeed been doing his research; a firm tongue cups his length as full lips close around him. Long fingers trail up his inner thigh before a strong hand wraps itself around him; all sensation now centres around his cock, around Sherlock's ministrations. Each lick, suck and rub drives John closer to the edge and he fights against it, never wanting the moment to end. His hands have wandered into Sherlock's hair, fingers entwined with damp locks as he does nothing more than just hold on and ride the sensations. His head is pressed back and sweat is streaming from him, his hips are shallowly thrusting and his thighs are trembling from the effort of not giving in and thrusting hard. Groans are mixed in with gasped profanities as his climax edges closer and closer: he tugs at Sherlock's hair, the only indicator he can give that he is so close. Sherlock responds by taking him deeper, sucking harder, muted moans filling the hot air. "

“Oh..... Oh, fuck! .. Sher....." John arches and spills into Sherlock's eager mouth, pulse after hot pulse flood out, each met with a gratified moan. Finally John falls back and tries to pull Sherlock up onto him, Sherlock moves slowly, weak with satisfied fatigue, before flopping heavily onto John.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, that was amazing." John pants out. "Let me get my breath back and I'll return the favour."

"No need." Sherlock nuzzles into John's neck, the words mumbled. "The experience of tasting you as you ejaculated was more than enough to precipitate my own orgasm."

Despite the preciseness of Sherlock's words John can think of hearing nothing sexier or more complimentary. His orgasm had driven Sherlock headlong into his own, completely untouched. Sherlock still rests heavily on his chest when he laughs softly. "I think I may need to replace their rug though." John blushes at the thought of the cleaning service finding the desecrated rug but can't find it in himself to care. He stares into the fire and watches the flames as they burn steadily, a deep glow at its centre. Slowly his eyes drift shut to the soft sound of Sherlock's sleepy, sated breathing.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And a good morning to you, too, Sherlock." John doesn't even try to keep the silly grin off his face; if possible it only widens when the same happiness is reflected on Sherlock's. His youthful face, always the dichotomy, is wreathed in laughter lines and wrinkles as he smiles down at John, his eyes sparkling as they study him. Obviously satisfied with whatever it is he sees, Sherlock gently kisses John on the end of his nose, eliciting a shocked boyish giggle in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is, the penultimate chapter! The response to the story so far has just been amazing, the comments have been so wonderful; encouraging, complimentary and funny, it really is a joy to read them!
> 
> I am convinced this story wouldn't be what it is without the support of my friends, in particular my beta, Lockedinjohnlock, who somehow knows exactly what word I am searching for and is always patient and kind. Also to Iwassoalone for happily reading random bits as I send them to her, often with no explanation!

They wake hours later as a chill begins to creep into the room. Regretfully they untangle from each other and stumble the short distance to the bed, neither fully awakening. Once there they wrap the duvet around them and, much to John's tired delight, Sherlock resumes the position he had been sleeping in, head resting against John's chest, right arm and leg sprawled carelessly across him. Sherlock is asleep again within seconds and John smiles contentedly before joining him.

The touch of weak, warm sunlight on his bare shoulder is what eventually pulls John out of his deep sleep. He grins up at the ceiling as memories of earlier flood over him. He had waited so long to feel Sherlock against him, to kiss him, to hold him and it had been even better than he had ever imagined it could be; was still being even better. He looks down at the dishevelled mop of curls resting on his chest; Sherlock's face is angled away leaving John with the view of his nape and a long, lithe body, now mostly swathed in covers. Against that pale neck rests a single lock of hair; it has curled into a loose loop and the sight of it makes John's fingers twitch. He resists for a moment before remembering that he is allowed to do this now, he is allowed to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair, to embrace his body. Slowly, he moves his hand up until his fingers are almost resting on Sherlock's neck. Releasing a long breath he trails his fingertips over the shape of the curl, savouring its softness and the warm dampness of the skin beneath. At his touch, Sherlock begins to stir, nothing more telling than a change in breathing and a slight tightening of the arm that rests across John's torso. John knows that Sherlock is giving him time to adjust to their new situation; he also knows that no time is needed. Resting his hand more firmly against Sherlock's neck, John buries his face into Sherlock's hair, breathing in its rich scent before pressing firm kisses in amongst the curls. Sighing, he pulls back and absent-mindedly rubs his thumb over Sherlock's neck. Sherlock stretches languidly and moves to position his face next to John's on the soft pillow.

"Good morning, John." Sherlock's eyes are an endless sea-blue in the hazy light of early morning, his face sleep-crumpled and flushed. John smiles at him, allowing his eyes to roam over the sleep-addled beauty, before leaning to rest his lips against Sherlock's, the kiss almost chaste. His eyes flutter shut as a large, warm hand grips at the back of his neck, eagerly pulling him into the kiss. Full lips open against his and the kiss deepens, a deep groan greets his own and he wraps his arm over Sherlock, before forcing the other arm under him. John holds Sherlock in a firm embrace before quickly flipping him over to lie on top. A startled gasp from Sherlock rapidly turns into a bone-melting moan at the touch of John's rapidly hardening cock against his.

"And a good morning to you, too, Sherlock." John doesn't even try to keep the silly grin off his face; if possible it only widens when the same happiness is reflected on Sherlock's. His youthful face, always the dichotomy, is wreathed in laughter lines and wrinkles as he smiles down at John, his eyes sparkling as they study him. Obviously satisfied with whatever it is he sees, Sherlock gently kisses John on the end of his nose, eliciting a shocked boyish giggle in response.

His giggle turns into a breathy moan as Sherlock grinds against him, his erection slotting against John's. John grabs at Sherlock's narrow hips and guides Sherlock as he thrusts against him. Full, soft lips crush against his and he moans again, heat flushing his skin as his cock firms still further, throbbing against Sherlock. Gone is the warm laziness of their first waking, now heat and want are their ruling guides. John digs his fingertips into Sherlock's hips, hard enough to bruise, but Sherlock only groans before grabbing John's short hair with one strong hand and tugging his head back. He mouths against John's exposed neck and the sensation of stubble, teeth and tongue against his sensitive skin drive John further along the road of complete bliss. Sherlock's assertiveness is still laced with care and the mix is heady.

"F...fuck...." It's barely more than a moan but the word causes Sherlock to slow his rocking and move his mouth back to John's, their lips barely touching. John moans again at the intimacy of it, at the feel of Sherlock's breath on his skin.

"Would you want that?" Sherlock's words are soft, almost hesitant, his lips brushing over John's as he speaks.

"What?" John forces himself to pay attention, to understand what Sherlock is asking. The instant he does, he pulls Sherlock into a deep kiss. He tries to put all of his want into it, all of his love. The kiss lengthens and deepens, tongues glide and tangle and lips slide. The sensation is sublime, the pace less frantic. Finally, John breaks the kiss.

Sherlock leans up on his elbows, his face flushed. He searches John's face, opening and closing his mouth a few times, before finally committing to speaking.

"So, you want that? To fuck me?" His eyes are wide and wondering. Hearing the expletive from Sherlock in this situation almost feels enough to cause John's brain to short circuit and he takes a few calming breaths before answering.

"Yeah, Sherlock." He moves his hands so that they now frame Sherlock's face. "I want us to fuck, to make love, to shag - whatever you want to call it." Sherlock's eyes drift closed as John gently rubs his thumbs over the glorious cheekbones he has long admired. "I want to feel you inside me. At some point I would like to feel what it's like to be inside you." He watches as Sherlock's cheeks flush even darker. "But, this first time, I want you inside me. We're both new to this and I trust you, Sherlock. I trust you to take care of me."

"John....... I should have told you this a long time ago.......... I tried to once ..........But........" He takes a deep, shuddering breath and moves to look John directly in the eye. John feels his heart stutter at the import of what is about to follow. "I love you." The words, so long in coming, are unrushed and ardently said and tears spring to John's eyes. He pulls Sherlock into a full bodied embrace, wrapping his arms and legs around him, pulling him tight.

"Oh God!" John buries his face against Sherlock's shoulder, willing the tears not to spill. He never thought he'd hear those words from Sherlock. On the occasions that he let himself fantasise, he had imagined the words would either be rushed or bitten out. Never in his wildest dreams had he thought the words would be so earnestly delivered, so heartfelt. He finally manages to get his tears under control and pulls back to look at Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes are bright with unshed tears of his own and a soft smile plays over his lips. "I love you, too, Sherlock." It's a simple statement but John feels like a weight has been lifted from his heart. Sherlock's eyes drift closed as he absorbs John's words.

When Sherlock's eyes slowly drift open, their gaze locks on John and his breath is taken away with the emotion he sees there. How he could ever have thought this man a machine, incapable of feeling, is beyond him. His eyes never leave Sherlock's as Sherlock lowers his face to his once more. The ensuing kiss is heartbreakingly intimate and slow. Full lips lightly brush over his firmer ones before a soft tongue tentatively touches against him. As John sighs and rubs his thumbs over Sherlock's cheekbones again, a slow rhythm starts to form. A kiss, a thumb glide and a gentle hip roll; John feels like he could keep doing this for the rest of his life, nothing more would be needed. He nips lightly at Sherlock's lower lip and feels Sherlock's cock twitch in response, and just like that the urgency he feels ramps up. He nips again and again, before laving the sensitive area with his tongue. Moving his hands into Sherlock's hair, he tugs gently on the curls, eliciting a deep moan and a firm hip rock. Leaving one hand wrapped firmly in Sherlock's hair he trails his other hand over Sherlock's back and arse, relishing the feel of firm muscles moving as they continue to rock together. Slowly, he trails his fingers along the cleft, his mouth watering at the idea of touching that part of Sherlock further, exploring with his fingers, his tongue; his cock. His own erection throbs at the thought and Sherlock's twitches alongside it. The sensation is enough to make John think about Sherlock exploring him the same way and he groans, deep and throaty.

"Oh God, Sherlock. I want you!" The words are gasped against Sherlock's sweaty cheek and he answers with a high pitched whine. Sherlock's body arches and then trembles as he fights to retain control, John's words evidently enough to push him close to climax.

"John .......... John ............ John ........ John...." Sherlock whispers his name; time and time again, trembling breaths huff against John's face before Sherlock shifts lower. He trails quivering lips along John's neck and chest, teasing John's nipples until they become firm peaks; then slowly, still trembling, he lowers himself between John's legs, taking his erection reverently between his lips. John groans at their touch, running his fingers tenderly through sweat damp hair. With each gentle suck and caress the tension leaves Sherlock's body, each act is one of devotion and John is surrounded by the depth of Sherlock's love for him. Sherlock's actions, as they always have, speak louder than any words; John loves and is loved.

A questing hand reaches up to the pillow and John shoves his own hand under the pillow, searching until it closes over the bottle of lubrication. Opening it, he squeezes a generous amount onto Sherlock's fingers, his own body beginning to tremble in anticipation. He shivers at the gentle glide of Sherlock's hand over his thigh, gasps at its touch against his balls. Sherlock rubs tenderly over his perineum, familiarising John with his touch, even as he laves John's cock. Sherlock takes John in deeper as he slides one long finger into John; John's done this much to himself but it feels more intense when he is not in control of the touch, when he can't second-guess what is coming next. His hips rock of their own accord, deepening his contact with both Sherlock's fingers and mouth. A fine sweat lies over his skin and he is hugely grateful that they have kicked the duvet off at some point in the proceedings. John lifts his head to look down his body at Sherlock and groans at the sight that meets him; eyes of a bright sea-green ring around blown pupils gaze up at him and wet, dark pink lips surround him.

"More." The word is barely louder than a garbled gasp but he knows he is understood when another long finger slides inside him. The new stretch feels amazing, sending sparks racing through him as Sherlock brushes lightly over his prostate. He groans in appreciation and trembles at the sensation of Sherlock's answering moan directly over his cock. Sherlock continues to carefully work him, gradually easing the muscles loose whilst keeping John's cock in his mouth, obviously savouring each twitch and arch as much as John is. His long body is rocking against the mattress, unconsciously seeking relief even as he prepares John. Long minutes pass and another finger slides in, John barely feels the stretch this time, he is eagerly propelling himself up into Sherlock's mouth and grinding himself down onto Sherlock's fingers; he tries to remain focussed on Sherlock's face but his vision is flaring at the edges from the intensity of the sensations he is experiencing.

"Sherlock....... Please." John doesn't care that he's begging, he needs to feel Sherlock inside him _now_. He very nearly complains when he feels Sherlock remove his fingers, before lovingly kissing the shaft of his cock; it's only the fact that he knows _why_ Sherlock has removed them that stops him.

Sherlock kisses his way back up John's body, each caress burning into John's over-sensitive skin, causing him to pant and squirm under Sherlock, desperate to feel him closer. What seems like years later in John's addled mind, Sherlock is finally over him, his cock slotted firmly between John's thighs, massaging against John's sensitised balls, rubbing through the lubricant there. He bucks up into Sherlock whilst pulling him down by the nape of his neck, the kiss is crushing and uncoordinated, both men now desperate for deeper contact. Suddenly Sherlock pulls his face away but smooths through John's sweat-soaked hair with one large hand before caressing his cheek. Sherlock is breathing deeply, trying to calm himself, needing to focus.

"John?" Another smoothing caress to John's cheek and John makes a concerted effort to focus, staring at the beautiful, flushed face before him. "I'm clean....... " Sherlock breaks off, pulling his lower lip between his teeth, looking pensive. John nods, he knows this, knows that because of the nature of Sherlock's work and experiments he gets regularly tested, but in his befuddled brain he can't work out why Sherlock is telling him this now. "You're clean........." John nods again; he was tested thoroughly after Mary and gets tested routinely at the surgery. Sherlock is now staring intently at John, willing him to understand. He sighs when he realises he will have to spell it out for John. "I saw that you bought condoms....." He groans in frustration. "What I'm trying to say, John, is .... We can do this without them if you want. Rather, I do, very much, not want to use them." The last sentence is hurried and Sherlock, sweaty, naked _Sherlock_  blushes.

It still takes another moment for John to register what Sherlock is requesting but the moment he does must be clearly apparent on his face as Sherlock pulls him into deep embrace, pressing his face into John's neck. "You're sure, John?"

"Completely." He sighs as Sherlock's strong hand grips under his thigh and pulls his leg up, placing it firmly on his shoulder. John shifts awkwardly but manages to shove a pillow under his hips, shuddering as he feels Sherlock tremble against him. He can tell that Sherlock is rapidly becoming overwhelmed and runs his hands soothingly over Sherlock's sides. This, as everything with them, is a partnership and he will take care of Sherlock, even as Sherlock takes care of him. Slowly, Sherlock's trembling abates and John wraps his arms around him, pulling him as close as his leg allows, it's awkward but worth the discomfort. Sherlock nuzzles into his neck before placing lingering kisses along his jaw to his ear, his breath is more even now, his muscles tense but not anxious. He lavishes the dip beneath John's ear with sucking kisses.

John feels Sherlock's cock nudging against his entrance and moans deeply, John pulls Sherlock deeper into him, pressing him with his heel, encouraging Sherlock to enter him. Slowly, almost impossibly slowly, Sherlock breaches him, John pants at the intrusion; there is no pain, no discomfort, only a feeling of fullness and completeness. Sherlock continues to push into him, only stopping when John can feel Sherlock's testicles resting against him. For a moment, both men are motionless, only the sound of their gasping breaths breaking the silence.

"I need you to move, Love." The words barely leave his lips when he feels a tentative thrust, even the slight movement is enough to make him groan. It seems the groan is all the encouragement Sherlock requires to begin thrusting in earnest. Each surge of movement wrenches a cry from John and he grabs at Sherlock's arse digging his fingernails into the perfect globes. Sherlock cries out and tugs at John's leg, pulling it further onto his shoulder; the move causes him to slide in deeper and John's pleasured shout mingles with Sherlock's.

Both men are now lost within each other, each thrust and clench driving them closer to their climax. Sherlock alters his angle slightly and the head of his cock brushes against John's prostate. John arches up and digs his nails in further, certain he will be leaving half moon marks on the white skin. A few well aimed thrusts more and John feels his orgasm barrelling down upon him; he clenches around Sherlock and gasps at the resulting throb. Sherlock's thrusts lose their rhythm and become more frantic, before he suddenly stills and John feels hot pulse after hot pulse surge into his body. Sherlock's eyes are clenched shut and his lips parted, his face an expression of pure bliss and it is that look that pushes John over the edge, his own come pulsing between them, painting stripes over his stomach and up onto his chest.

"Oh..... Oh..... Fuck....... That was magnificent! You were brilliant, Sherlock." John manages to gasp out as Sherlock collapses onto him. They lie in a tangle of sweaty limbs, panting and sated. Slowly, John starts to shake; the shaking gradually coalesces into giggles. Sherlock sluggishly pulls his head up to look at John before joining in with John's laughter, his deep baritone chuckle mixing flawlessly with John's higher pitched giggle. Sherlock shifts his weight off John and John winces at the flow of fluid leaving his body. He watches as Sherlock gracefully rises and walks to the bathroom. He returns short moments later with a warm, wet flannel and gently wipes John's chest before sweeping down and cleansing the rest of him. John shivers at the sensation and pulls Sherlock down into a lingering kiss.

"How long until our visitor arrives?" John's voice is heavy with relaxation and he wriggles into the mattress, trying to make himself more comfortable.

"We have a few hours yet, plenty of time before we need to leave our bed." Sherlock reaches down for the duvet and pulls it over them both as he slides down next to John, a deep chuckle on his lips.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mycroft? Our visitor is Mycroft?" John splutters, legs braced apart and hands on hips, mindless of his nakedness. "At this point, I'm not even sure _why_ I'm surprised that it's Mycroft."
> 
> "Bloody Mycroft." Sherlock corrects from his duvet nest.
> 
> "Right you, up!" John pulls the duvet off Sherlock, ignoring the whines and complaints. "I am _not_  facing him on my own!" He sorts through the chest of drawers, quickly locating pyjamas for the both of them, throwing Sherlock's over to him, before pulling on his own. "Put those on whilst I go and let our visitor in."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here it is! The final chapter! Eek! 
> 
> A conversation with Iwassoalone prompted the tea comment, I hope you like the way it came out, dear!
> 
> My undying gratitude goes to my beta, Lockedinjohnlock, for not allowing me to have a weak or twee ending to this! Also for always being on the other end of messenger despite there being many time-zones separating us!
> 
> And finally a huge thank you to all of you! For the comments, kudos, bookmarks and company! It's been a fantastic journey!

A loud hammering at the cottage door pulls both men suddenly from their slumber. John feels as if he travels from sound asleep to wide awake in less than a second, not a feeling he appreciates. Cursing, he untangles himself from a now sulking Sherlock. As he stands, he hears a vindictive, 'Bloody Mycroft!' From Sherlock before he burrows himself back under the duvet.

"Mycroft? Our visitor is Mycroft?" John splutters, legs braced apart and hands on hips, mindless of his nakedness. "At this point, I'm not even sure _why_ I'm surprised that it's Mycroft."

"Bloody Mycroft." Sherlock corrects from his duvet nest.

"Right you, up!" John pulls the duvet off Sherlock, ignoring the whines and complaints. "I am _not_  facing him on my own!" He sorts through the chest of drawers, quickly locating pyjamas for the both of them, throwing Sherlock's over to him, before pulling on his own. "Put those on whilst I go and let our visitor in."

John clumps down the stairs, mumbling to himself and trying not to be too agitated about seeing Mycroft mere hours after he and Sherlock have had sex. He had intended to wake hours ago; he had wanted to smother Sherlock in affection, to explore every inch of him with his mouth and his fingers - and other parts of his anatomy had Sherlock been willing - but he had been so worn out from their earlier activities, and from the relief of them finally getting together, that he had slept the sleep of the dead, nothing disturbing either of them until now.

Wrenching the door open, John manages to fix an insincere smile on his face. Mycroft looks distinctly unruffled upon being met at the door by a short man wearing pyjamas at midday; unfortunately he is not alone and his companion looks more than slightly discomfited by the sight.

"Ah, John. May I introduce Herbert Brün? He is the _Sonderbeauftragter_ , which, for the purpose of this meeting, means he is the Austrian High Ambassador for Antiquities. I believe you have some items in your possession he has an interest in. May we come in? Thank you." Before John has even formulated an answer, Mycroft has swept past him and into the cosy living room. Herr Brün following at a more sedate pace.

Turning to follow them into the living room, John's gaze is arrested by the sight of Sherlock walking down the stairs. He is wrapped in a sheet and John barely has time to wonder where the sheet came from before he takes in the state of Sherlock's hair. It is quite obviously sex-hair, the curls springing every which way, clearly having been pulled and tugged; and if John can see that, he is damn sure that Mycroft won't miss it. More mortifying still is the faint pink colouring of Sherlock's usually pale throat; the after effects of John's stubble rubbing at the tender skin during their lovemaking. Sherlock meets his embarrassed gaze evenly, wearing the signs of their encounter proudly. Walking to stand in front of John, he raises one elegant hand and smooths down John's hair before tracing the line of John's jaw with delicate fingers. John leans into the touch and lifts his chin, silently asking for a kiss. He is amazed when that kiss is happily bestowed, in full view of their visitors. He becomes momentarily lost in the kiss, only becoming aware of his surroundings at the sound of a throat being loudly cleared. Sherlock leans into John a moment longer, apparently savouring the stolen intimacy, before gliding into the living room. John remains in the hallway a second or two longer before straightening his shoulders and following him.

"Brother dear, Herr Brün, you've made excellent time, I hadn't expected you for at least another hour." As usual, Sherlock has avoided shaking hands and has taken full control of the room. John thinks it's an impressive feat considering his present attire and his lips quirk into an indulgent smile. "Of course, I would love to offer you a cup of tea after your journey, but I'm afraid we have none, a frightful oversight on John's part." John's smile turns into a frown and a small knot of dread forms in his stomach. "He did bring a bag of such thoughtful supplies from Vienna, torches, maps and ......"

"Sherlock!" John interrupts with a growl, red flooding his face.

"And..." Sherlock continues, smirking in John's direction. "He forgot the most important thing of all, the tea!" With an imperious twirl Sherlock falls into the nearest seat, somehow managing to maintain his dignity. John tries, and fails, to smother his small snort of laughter before sitting next to Sherlock on the sofa. Herr Brün is looking extremely confused by the exchange, probably writing it off as the famous English sense of humour. Mycroft, however, is looking even more smug than Sherlock, a worrying sight.

"Congratulations are in order, I see." He looks between John and Sherlock, a genuine, if brief, smile gracing his fine features.

"On the recovery of the jewels, of course." Sherlock responds.

"Don't be deliberately obtuse, Sherlock. You _know_  to what I am referring." Some of Mycroft's customary abruptness is back, but a kindness remains apparent in his eyes as he looks at his brother.

"Quite." John feels his eyebrows rise almost to his hairline and he fights to keep his mouth closed as he watches Sherlock struggle over his next words. "Thank you, Mycroft." At that, John loses his battle and his jaw hangs open. He only thinks to close it after a nudge from Sherlock.

"Coffee?" John stands abruptly from the sofa and walks through to the kitchen before receiving any answers. He searches through the cupboards, locating everything he needs for the coffee making, including a carton of long life milk and a tray. He fills the kettle and switches it on before leaning back on the counter, letting the conversation between Mycroft and Sherlock run back through his mind. It's not really a surprise that Mycroft knows what has happened between him and Sherlock, but the fact that he seems to approve comes as something of a shock. The sound of the kettle whistling draws him from his musings and he quickly puts a tray together before carrying it back through to the living room.

It becomes apparent that Sherlock has retrieved both the diary and the hair gems whilst John was in the kitchen when he sees Herr Brün reverently cradling the unwrapped hair gems in his lap and Mycroft flicking through the diary, an elegant eyebrow arched high.

"I cannot thank you enough for recovering these artefacts, Mr Holmes." Herr Brün's English is faultless but strangely flat; the only sign of his high level of emotion is the way his hands delicately caress the gems. "Your brother and I worked hard, with your help, to keep their loss hidden from our governments. Mycroft and I had long suspected Lechner's involvement but we had been unable to prove it. Trusted members from my department in the UK had Lechner detained, unbeknownst to Mycroft - an action I deeply regret - but were unable to gain any information from him."

"And upon whose orders was Lechner executed?" John winces at the coldness in Sherlock's voice. A long pause follows, neither Mycroft nor Herr Brün willing to claim responsibility. "He was no real threat to anyone and if I had been given access to him, or his apartments, I would have recovered the gems - as I have now proven - without loss of life." Sherlock narrows his eyes and glares between the two impassive men. "So, I ask again, who had Lechner executed?"

Herr Brün starts to shuffle his feet before raising his chin to meet Sherlock's gaze in a semi-defiant gesture. "The blame for that falls to me. A direct order was not given by myself, but it would seem that a member of my team decided to interpret my wishes in a different way and took it upon themselves to eliminate Herr Lechner."

"It was at that point that Herr Brün contacted me and we decided to involve you, calling in a favour from Detective Inspector Lestrade." Mycroft's smooth tones do not entirely hide his distaste for the actions, direct or otherwise, of Herr Brün.

"Mr Holmes, how did you know where to look for the gems? My intelligence had received no word of them."

"The soil from Lechner's boots narrowed down the area where I had to search. The fireflies in his pocket enabled me to narrow down the area still further. Lechner's personal files indicated that he often rented properties in the Thayatal area and I was able to triangulate their locations and isolate the area to search. It was John, as is so often the case, who was able to illuminate the gems' final location for me." John looks on in amazement at the unexpected praise. "It was the uniqueness of the fireflies that he observed that made me realise we were in precisely the right area." Here, Sherlock places a hand fondly on John's shoulder, drawing his gaze. "Thank me for locating the area if you wish, but it is John who truly made the difference." A long silence passes as John and Sherlock share a private moment.

"Were you able to ascertain as to why Herr Lechner took the hair gems, Mr Holmes?" Herr Brün still holds the gems on his lap, but he appears more at ease.

"I believe so. It all goes back to Empress Elisabeth's son, Crown Prince Rudolf. The diary that I found at Lechner's Austrian apartment is a record of her children's exploits, but in particular Rudolf's. He was unhappily married for many years, only having one child within wedlock. He had many affairs though, documented in her diary, some of which produced children. Of course, these children have no claim to the estate of Elisabeth officially, but unofficially she did make provision for them and their heirs to receive a small inheritance from it, in perpetuity. Lechner had discovered this secret diary through his work at the Austrian Government and undertook painstaking research into who was related to Prince Rudolf. It is via this research that he discovered a possible, unclaimed link to his own family. He took a sample of his own DNA and had a sample drawn from Elisabeth, using the lock of hair contained within the diary, and had the results compared. The coded scrawlings at his London apartment, I believe, confirm that he is indeed related to Empress Elisabeth, via her son Rudolf, and would have been afforded a share in the inheritance. It is my deduction that he took the gemstones in a misguided belief that he deserved them."

"Brilliant."

"You still do that out loud you know." Sherlock turns a soft smile in John's direction.

"Sorry, I'll stop." Echoes of their first case are playing through his mind.

"Don't you bloody dare!" Sherlock laughs before turning to face their visitors once more.

After several coffees, Mycroft and Herr Brün finally leave. They are heading back to Vienna to replace the fake hair gems with the real ones and to secrete the incriminating diary where it will not be found. John feels that the men would probably have stayed longer except for the various huffs and sighs coming from Sherlock and the palpable tension in the air whenever John and Sherlock meet each other's eye.

As the front door closes, John tugs Sherlock up the stairs, laughing as Sherlock clutches at his sheet, not wanting to risk falling over it in their haste. Giggling, they fall through the door of the bedroom, clutching at each other as they go. Sherlock's large hands sneak under John's loose t-shirt and John gasps at their coldness. He places his own hands over them, smaller but strong, and rubs the material over the pale skin, trying to warm them up.

"I'll get another fire started and then we'll have a shower, get you all warmed up."The caretaker in John is at the forefront, but he'd be lying if he didn't admit that he had an ulterior motive in getting Sherlock into the shower. A flush heats his cheeks at the thought of a naked, wet Sherlock and he salivates at the thought of what he wants to do once he gets him there. In his experience, shower sex has been erotic in fantasy but chilly and awkward in reality, but John is more than willing to try with Sherlock. Gently, he eases Sherlock's hands out from under his t-shirt and pulls Sherlock's sheet over his shoulders. "Go get warm, Love." He nods over to the bed, indicating the duvet still rumpled there. Sherlock's eyes widen at the endearment and John's heart aches a little, even after all their experiences overnight, Sherlock still seems to find it a surprise that John thinks of him in this way.

Quickly John resets the fire and soon has a fragile heat permeating into the room. He turns to look at Sherlock, smiling at the sight of him sitting cross-legged on the bed, cocooned in the duvet, only his bright eyes visible.

"Do you think you can leave your sanctuary in a moment and join me in the shower?" He laughs aloud at the alacrity with which Sherlock emerges from his hidey-hole and moves to his side. "Eager are we?"

The way that he is suddenly dragged along the corridor goes a long way to answering his teasing question and John can't remember the last time he ever felt this genuinely happy in a new relationship, in any relationship, really. There'd always been a missing element, he'd pondered over it on occasion, but now it was obvious what that element had been: Sherlock.

Their arrival into the bathroom is greeted by the sound of their laughter echoing off the tiles, quickly drowned out by the sound of running water. John is pleased to see that the shower head itself is huge, larger than a dinner-plate, and he calculates that the spray should easily cover the pair of them; especially if they are standing close, which he fully intends they will be.

As the cubicle starts to fill with steam, John begins to unwind the sheet from Sherlock's finely muscled body. As each inch is revealed, John drinks his fill; it seems as if acres of soft, pale skin is being exposed. He knows he's already seen Sherlock naked, but getting to undress him adds a whole new level of eroticism, as does Sherlock's gentle quiver at each newly revealed area of skin.

"Cold, Love?" John holds back the accompanying remark that Sherlock is the hottest thing he has ever seen, unsure if Sherlock is ready for that sort of (honest) teasing during sex.

Judging by the wide eyes and parted lips, John would say that Sherlock is feeling overwhelmed at being the centre of John's attentions. He stretches up slightly and nibbles along Sherlock's jawline, nipping as he draws closer to Sherlock's right ear before finally sucking on the lobe. Sherlock's eyes flutter closed and he pulls his lower lip into his mouth, stifling a moan. The sheet gives up its final hold on Sherlock's hips and slips to the floor, puddling around his feet. John takes a minute step back and allows his gaze to travel over the naked beauty in front of him and watches as a dusky pink blush warms the skin on Sherlock's face, neck and chest. Slowly, he places his left hand over the bullet wound on Sherlock's chest, taking a few deep breaths and places a gentle kiss over the scar.

"I'm sorry I chose the wrong person, Sherlock, but I'm here now and I plan always to be."

Before Sherlock can respond, John pushes up onto his toes and places his lips over Sherlock's. He pulls Sherlock deeper into the kiss with a firm hand at the nape of his neck. Sherlock's lips part beneath his and the kiss rapidly deepens, John sliding his tongue against Sherlock's, groaning at the sensation. He doubts he will ever have enough of this man, each touch and kiss makes him simply yearn for more. Sherlock adjusts the angle of the kiss, pulling John's pyjama-clad form against his naked body and John ceases to think, his body and mind running on pure instinct. He wriggles out of his pyjama bottoms, groaning as his erection brushes over the soft skin of Sherlock's thigh. Reluctantly, he breaks the kiss to pull his t-shirt off. He runs his hands over Sherlock's body, tracing the contours of firm muscles along his sides and over the subtle curves of his hips, before flattening his palms and pulling Sherlock flush against him. The press of Sherlock's erection against his stomach reinforces John's determination to lavish him with attention; he may not have Sherlock's research results to guide him but he knows the things he wants to do and his body appears to be guiding him on how to do them.

Interrupting the kiss, John guides Sherlock over to the shower cubicle. Opening the door sends clouds of steam towards them, making the scene slightly surreal. John steps into the shower before gently pulling Sherlock in after him. He's seen Sherlock soaked through before, hair hanging in loose curls over his forehead, but he looks even more ethereal surrounded by clouds of steam and his skin flushed pink. John watches as the water runs in fine rivulets down Sherlock's high cheek bones and along his jaw before converging at the dip of his neck, thicker streams of water run over Sherlock's torso, parting their way around his nipples before meeting once again on his abdomen. John watches mesmerised as the water streams through Sherlock's pubic hair before running down long, strong legs.

"God, you're so amazing. Beauty and brains." John looks up as he speaks and catches Sherlock looking at him like _he_  is the most fascinating person to have ever existed. Slowly, he reaches for the shampoo, pouring some into a cupped palm before indicating with a quick finger flick for Sherlock to turn around. He eases Sherlock's head out of the direct spray of the shower and, taking a deep breath, begins to massage the shampoo through Sherlock's wavy hair. His senses are flooded with the citrus herbal smell of the shampoo and the silky feel of Sherlock's hair in his hands, it is so much longer wet than dry and John idly thinks he could spend hours just running his fingers through it. The suds form quickly in Sherlock's soft hair and soon the bubbles are running down Sherlock's back, John guides him back under the spray and runs his fingers through Sherlock's mane, rinsing the suds out. A soft sigh escapes Sherlock as John's steady hands trail through his hair, the first sound to leave him since his sheet had fallen to the floor. The noise seems almost momentous and John vows to draw more sounds from him.

"Another lot of shampoo?"

"No." Sherlock's baritone is unusually soft and intimate. "My hair will go fluffy, just the conditioner." A deep chuckle escapes Sherlock and John joins in; the idea of a fluffy-headed Sherlock is extremely endearing.

John pours the rich conditioner into his palm before spreading it evenly between both hands.

"Turn around."

Sherlock obeys him and tilts his head down slightly, his eyes fixed on John's face. John reaches up and works the conditioner through Sherlock's hair before spreading his fingers and combing back through, separating the luscious tendrils. Sherlock's eyes slide closed and his lips part, John's name a mere sigh. John continues to run his fingers through for far longer than is needed, loving the look on Sherlock's face and the soft sighs he is emitting. Once again, John guides him under the spray, rinsing away the conditioner before pulling him down for a kiss. Their lips part upon meeting, tongue seeking tongue even as the water runs over their faces and into their mouths, the sounds of their panting echoing around the tiled room. Without breaking the kiss, John reaches for the shower-gel and pours a generous amount onto his hand. Slowly, sensuously, he smooths the gel over Sherlock's broad shoulders, finally breaking the kiss to wrap his arms around Sherlock. He circles foamy hands over Sherlock's strong back, fingers tracing over the scars and his heart swells at the thought of Sherlock's sacrifices for him. Gradually, he trails his hands over Sherlock's backside, loving the way the shape of it fits into his palms, before trailing his fingers into Sherlock's cleft. He feels Sherlock sag against him, long, strong fingers digging into his shoulders before Sherlock presses his face into John's neck, sucking the moisture from his skin before gently nipping with his teeth. Groaning, John guides his fingers deeper until they drift over Sherlock's entrance, teasingly he applies more pressure and the very tip of his soapy finger glides in. Sherlock nips at his neck more firmly, breath coming in short huffs against John's skin, raising goosebumps even in the warmth of the shower. John moves his finger gently in and out, never any deeper, groaning louder as he feels Sherlock trembling against him. Without removing his finger, John sinks to his knees, mindless of the water falling over his face. He trails swift kisses over Sherlock's abdomen before slowing at Sherlock's hips, pressing lingering kisses into the dip of Sherlock's belly-button before easing further down. Sherlock's penis nudges against his chin and they both tremble in anticipation, John's mouth is watering at just the thought of having Sherlock in his mouth. His lips part and he dips his tongue lightly against the slit, Sherlock's taste blooms over John's tongue and he moans deeply, his free hand coming up to steady Sherlock's cock.

" _John_ , oh God..." Sherlock's hand moves to rest in John's hair. "You don't have to..." Sherlock's voice is coming out in short gasps, his hips moving in tiny increments.

"I really, really do. I want this." He slides his hand along Sherlock's cock, twisting slightly before moving back down, fully uncovering the dusky head of Sherlock's penis. "Do you want me to?"

"More than I can say...." Sherlock tightens his grip in John's hair and holds John's shoulder with his other hand, long fingers trailing over John's scar.

John doesn't waste his time, or breath, on answering; he simply sinks his mouth back over Sherlock's erection. The taste blooms again on his tongue, strong and heavy, and he loves it, actively chasing it to the source. He moves his hand along the length of Sherlock, massaging what he can't take into his mouth. He feels Sherlock trembling against him and intensifies his efforts with his tongue. He alternates between licking along the length of him and sucking him deep inside, laving his tongue around the head. His other hand continues to pump inside Sherlock, the tip of his finger slipping in deeper as the muscle relaxes. He releases Sherlock's cock and kisses down the shaft before taking a testicle into his mouth, gently he sucks it, soaking it with his saliva before allowing it to slide out between his lips; he repeats his actions on its partner before blowing over the delicate skin. He slides over the length of Sherlock again, deeper this time, growling at the rich taste flooding his mouth. Sherlock is trembling in earnest now, one hand still clamped in John's hair, the other flat against the shower wall, supporting his weight. John sucks in earnest, hollowing his cheeks in an effort to create the perfect pressure. Sherlock is groaning almost constantly, his hips moving between John's finger and John's mouth. Finally, and yet far too soon, John feels Sherlock grow harder inside him and Sherlock stills before shouting John's name and pulsing into John's mouth. John swallows eagerly, loving the salty bitterness as it floods over his tongue, only releasing him at a gentle nudge from an overly-sensitive Sherlock.

John surges up and kisses Sherlock deeply, groaning as their tastes mingle. Sherlock clutches at the nape of John's neck, pulling him hard into the kiss. John moans and digs his fingers deep into Sherlock's hips, helplessly thrusting against his thigh. He almost yelps when a slippery hand works its way around his cock, the grip precisely how he needs it. Sherlock begins to work him hard and fast and John thrusts hard into his grip, sucking on the delicate flesh of Sherlock's chest, coming with a cry against Sherlock's leg.

For a moment, both men lean against each other, letting the warm water run over their lax bodies, savouring this new step in their relationship. After a few minutes, Sherlock moves away, pouring shampoo into his hand before briskly washing John's hair but his movements seem almost distracted.

"John?" The hesitancy is clear in his voice and his fingers slow in John's hair. "What happens when we return home?"

"What happens? I don't know, do we have any cases lined up?" John is still too relaxed to be able to read between the lines of what is being asked of him.

"I meant..." Sherlock hesitates before continuing. "Between us. I know what I want. I want for you to move into my room and sleep in my bed every night. I want to continue exploring your body, and for you to explore mine. I want to continue to work cases with you and argue with you. I want ...... I _need_  to spend the rest of my life with you, loving you."

Water continues to fall over them, the sound of it splashing on bare skin and tiles as John searches for precisely the right words to reassure Sherlock that he wants, needs, that too. In the end, he goes for something simple.

"Me too, Sherlock. For the rest of my life."

They kiss again under the now cooling spray, smiling against each other's lips, certain that this is just the beginning of the rest of their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed the story! I do have other work posted, please check it out! Currently I'm trying to write a quick little pwp (a challenge from my beta!) to see if I can do it and that should be up soonish!  
> I also have a challenging project I want to tackle, very angsty but I'm sure you know my work well enough to guess how it will end!  
> Please, if you fancy reading any more of my work, subscribe to me as an author.
> 
> Also I am on Twitter and tumblr under the same user name if anyone wants to drop by and say hi. I'm not overly active on either but I do check in regularly and I try to answer any direct mentions.
> 
> Dee  
> Xxx


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